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KIPLING BOY STORIES 




(ftt^ <k>J 


RAN ALLY SERIES 


KIPLING 
BOY STORIES 


With Illustrations by 

J. ALLEN ST. JOHN 



RAND McNALLY & COMPANY 


CHICAGO 


Illustrations 
Copyright, iqi6. 

By Rand McNally & Company J 



mar -4 1916 


© Cl. A 4 2 7 1 6 0 

yu> 'V' . 

f 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

His Majesty the King, . 5 

The Drums of the Fore and Aft, .... 26 

Wee Willie Winkie, 87 

Christmas in India, 107 

Baa Baa, Black Sheep, no 

The Ballad of East and West, 163 

The Arrest of Lieutenant Golightly, . .171 

The Rout of the White Hussars, .... 181 

- Bimi, 199 

Namgay Doola, 210 

The Judgment of Dungara, 231 

The Ballad of the “ Clampherdown,” . . . 247 

Moti Guj — Mutineer, 252 

Haunted Subalterns, 265 

His Chance in Life, 275 

A Germ-Destroyer, 285 

His Wedded Wife, 294 

The Broken Link Handicap, 304 

A Bank Fraud, .... 314 

Tods’ Amendment, 326 

A Friend’s Friend, 337 

The Story of Muhammad Din, 347 

The Sending of Dana Da, 353 

The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes, . .371 

My Own True Ghost Story, ..... 423 

Glossary, 443 





* 










\ 


" % 































ILLUSTRATIONS 


“Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. "Show now if ye 


can ride” Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

The two boys marched out into the open . . . .76 

Other men with evil faces crept out of the shadows of 

the hills 102 

On his back sat a bareheaded skeleton 190 

Namgay Doola had scrambled on the jam and was claw- 
ing out a log with a boat-hook 218 


Moti Guj pulled up till the brown baby was in the air 

twelve feet above his father’s head 262 

He had hold of the kid’s collar, and was being dragged 


across the flower-beds 328 

A wild crow grappled with the helpless bird .... 396 


3 























































HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


“Where the word of a King is, there is power. And 
who may say unto him — What doest thou?" 

“Yeth! And Chimo to sleep at ve foot of ve 
bed, and ve pink pikky-book, and ve bwead — 
’cause I will be hungwy in ve night — and vats 
all, Miss Biddums. And now give me one kiss 
and I’ll go to sleep. So! Kite quiet. Ow! Ve 
pink pikky-book has slidded under ve pillow and 
ve bwead is cwumbling! Miss Biddums! Miss 
i?f^-dums! I’m so uncomfy! Come and tuck me 
up, Miss Biddums.” 

His Majesty the King was going to bed; and 
poor, patient Miss Biddums, who had advertised 
herself humbly as a “young person, European, 
accustomed to the care of little children,” was 
compelled to wait upon his royal caprices. The 
going to bed was always a lengthy process, be- 
cause His Majesty had a convenient knack of for- 
getting which of his many friends, from the 


5 


6 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


mehter’s son to the commissioner’s daughter, he 
had prayed for, and, lest the Deity should take 
offense, was used to toil through his little prayers, 
in all reverence, five times in one evening. His 
Majesty the King believed in the efficacy of prayer 
as devoutly as he believed in Chimo, the patient 
spaniel, or Miss Biddums, who could reach him 
down his gun — “with cursuffun caps — reel ones” 
— from the upper shelves of the big nursery cup- 
board. 

At the door of the nursery his authority stopped. 
Beyond lay the empire of his father and mother 
— two very terrible people who had no time to 
waste upon His Majesty the King. His voice 
was lowered when he passed the frontier of his 
own dominions, his actions were fettered, and 
his soul was filled with awe because of the grim 
man who lived among a wilderness of pigeon- 
holes and the most fascinating pieces of red tape, 
and the wonderful woman who was always get- 
ting into or stepping out of the big carriage. To 
the one belonged the mysteries of the “duftar- 
room;” to the other, the great, reflected wilder- 
ness of the “Memsahib’s room,” where the shiny, 
scented dresses hung on pegs, miles and miles up 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


7 


in the air, and the just-seen plateau of the toilet 
table revealed an acreage of speckly combs, em- 
broidered “hanafitch-bags,” and “white-headed” 
brushes. 

There was no room for His Majesty the King 
either in official reserve or mundane gorgeousness. 
He had discovered that, ages and ages ago — be- 
fore even Chimo came to the house, or Miss Bid- 
dums had ceased grizzling over a packet of greasy 
letters which appeared to be her chief treasure on 
earth. His Majesty the King, therefore, wisely 
confined himself to his own territories, where only 
Miss Biddums, and she feebly, disputed his sway. 

From Miss Biddums he had picked up his sim- 
ple theology and welded it to the legends of gods 
and devils that he had learned in the servants’ 
quarters. 

To Miss Biddums Ire confided with equal trust 
his tattered garments and his more serious griefs. 
She would make everything whole. She knew 
exactly how the earth had been born, and had 
reassured the trembling soul of His Majesty the 
King of that terrible time in July when it rained 
continuously for seven days and seven nights, and 
— there was no Ark ready and all the ravens had 


8 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


flown away! She was the most powerful person 
with whom he was brought into contact — always 
excepting the two remote and silent people be- 
yond the nursery door. 

How was His Majesty the King to know that, 
six years ago, in the summer of his birth, Mrs. 
Austell, turning over her husband’s papers, had 
come upon the intemperate letter of a foolish wo- 
man who had been carried away by the silent 
man’s strength and personal beauty? How could 
he tell what evil the overlooked slip of note-paper 
had wrought in the mind of a desperately jealous 
wife? How could he, despite his wisdom, guess 
that his mother had chosen to make of it excuse 
for a bar and a division between herself and her 
husband that strengthened and grew harder to 
break with each year; that she, having unearthed 
this skeleton in the cupboard, had trained it into 
a household god which should be about their path 
and poison all their ways? 

These things were beyond the province of His 
Majesty the King. He only knew that his father 
was daily absorbed in some mysterious work for 
a thing called the Sirkar, and that his mother was 
the victim alternately of the Nautch and the Bur- 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


9 


rakhana. To these entertainments she was es- 
corted by a captain-man for whom His Majesty 
the King had no regard. 

“He doesn’t laugh/’ he argued with Miss Bid- 
dums, who would fain have taught him charity. 
“He only makes faces wiv his mouf, and when he 
wants to o-muse me, I am not o-mused.” And 
His Majesty the King shook his head as one who 
knew the deceitfulness of the world. 

Morning and evening it was his duty to sa- 
lute his father and mother — the former with a 
grave shake of the hand, and the latter with an 
equally grave kiss. Once, indeed, he had put his 
arms round his mother’s neck, in the fashion he 
used toward Miss Biddums. The openwork of his 
sleeve-edge caught in an earring, and the last 
stage of His Majesty’s little overture was a sup- 
pressed scream and summary dismissal to the 
nursery. 

“It is w’ong,” thought His Majesty the King, 
“to hug Memsahibs wiv fings in veir ears. I will 
amember.” He never repeated the experiment. 

Miss Biddums, it must be confessed, spoiled 
him as much as his nature admitted, in some sort 
of recompense for what she called “the hard ways 


IO 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


of papa and mamma.” She, like her charge, 
knew nothing of the trouble between man and 
wife — the savage contempt for a woman’s stu- 
pidity on the one side, or the dull, rankling anger 
on the other. Miss Biddums had looked after 
many little children in her time, and served in 
many establishments. Being a discreet woman, 
she observed little and said less, and when her pu- 
pils went over the sea to the Great Unknown, 
which she, with touching confidence in her hear- 
ers, called “Home,” packed up her slender be- 
longings and sought for employment afresh, lav- 
ishing all her love on each successive batch of in- 
grates. Only His Majesty the King had repaid 
her affection with interest; and in his uncompre- 
hending ears she had told the tale of nearly all 
her hopes, her aspirations, the hopes that were 
dead, and the dazzling glories of her ancestral 
home in “Ca/cutta, close to> Wellington Square.” 

Everything above the average was, in the eyes 
of His Majesty the King, “Calcutta good.” When 
Miss Biddums had crossed his royal will, he re- 
versed the epithet to vex that estimable lady, and 
all things evil were, until the tears of repentance 
swept away spite, “Calcutta bad.” 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


II 


Now and again Miss Biddums begged for him 
the rare pleasure of a day in the society of the 
commissioner’s child — the willful four-year-old 
Patsie, who, to the intense amazement of His 
Majesty the King, was idolized by her parents. 
On thinking the question out at length, by roads 
unknown to those who have left childhood behind, 
he came to the conclusion that Patsie was petted 
because she wore a big blue sash and yellow 
hair. 

This precious discovery he kept to himself. The 
yellow hair was absolutely beyond his power, his 
own tousled wig being potato-brown; but some- 
thing might be done toward the blue sash. He 
tied a large knot in his mosquito-curtains in order 
to remember to consult Patsie on their next meet- 
ing. She was the only child he had ever spoken 
to, and almost the only one that he had ever seen. 
The little memory and the very large and ragged 
knot held good. 

“Patsie, lend me your blue wibbon,” said His 
Majesty the King. 

“You’ll bewy it,” said Patsie, doubtfully, mind- 
ful of certain fearful atrocities committed on her 
doll. 


12 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


“No, I won’t — twoofanhonor. It’s for me to 
wear.” 

“Pooh !” said Patsie. “Boys don’t wear sashes. 
Zey’s only for dirls.” 

“I didn’t know.” The face of His Majesty the 
King fell. 

“Who wants ribbons ? Are you playing horses, 
chicka-biddies ?” said the commissioner’s wife, 
stepping into the veranda. 

“Toby wanted my sash,” explained Patsie. 

“I don’t now,” said His Majesty the King, 
hastily, feeling that with one of these terrible 
“grown-ups” his poor little secret would be shame- 
lessly wrenched from him, and perhaps — most 
burning desecration of all — laughed at. 

“Pll give you a cracker-cap,” said the com- 
missioner’s wife. “Come along with me, Toby, 
and we’ll choose it.” 

The cracker-cap was a stiff, three-pointed, ver- 
milion-and-tinsel splendor. His Majesty the King 
fitted it on his royal brow. The commissioner’s 
wife had a face that children instinctively trusted, 
and her action, as she adjusted the toppling mid- 
dle spike, was tender. 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


13 


“Will it do as well?” stammered His Majesty 
the King. 

“As what, little one?” 

“As ve wibbon?” 

“Oh, quite. Go and look at yourself in the 
glass.” 

The words were spoken in all sincerity and to 
help forward any absurd “dressing-up” amuse- 
ment that the children might take into their minds. 
But the young savage has a keen sense of the 
ludicrous. His Majesty the King swung the 
great cheval-glass down, and saw his head 
crowned with the staring horror of a fool’s cap — 
a thing which his father would rend to pieces if it 
ever came into his office. He plucked it off, and 
burst into tears. 

“Toby,” said the commissioner’s wife, gravely, 
“you shouldn’t give way to temper. I am very 
sorry to see it. It’s wrong.” 

His Majesty the King sobbed inconsolably, and 
the heart of Patsie’s mother was touched. She 
drew the child on to her knee. Clearly it was not 
temper alone. 

“What is it, Toby? Won’t you tell me? Aren’t 

you well ?” 

2 


( 


14 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

The torrent of sobs and speech met, and fought 
for a time, with chokings and gulpings and gasps. 
Then, in a sudden rush, His Majesty the King 
was delivered of a few inarticulate sounds, fol- 
lowed by the words : “Go a — way, you — dirty — 
little debbil !” 

“Toby ! What do you mean ?” 

“It’s what he’d say. I know it is ! He sait vat 
when vere was only a little, little eggy mess on my 
t-t-unic; and he’d say it again, and laugh, if I went 
in wif vat on my head.” 

“Who would say that?” 

“M-m-my papa ! And I fought if I had ve blue 
wibbon, he’d let me play in ve waste-paper basket 
under ve table.” 

“What blue ribbon, childie?” 

“Ve same vat Patsie had — ve big blue wibbon 
w-w- wound my t-t-tummy !” 

“What is it, Toby ? There’s something on your 
mind. Tell me all about it, and perhaps I can 
help.” 

“Isn’t anyfing,” sniffed His Majesty, mindful 
of his manhood, and raising his head from the 
motherly bosom upon which it was resting. “I 
only fought vat you — you petted Patsie ’cause she 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 1 5 

had ve blue wibbon, and — and if I’d had ve blue 
wibbon, too, m-my papa w-would pet me.” 

The secret was out, and His Majesty the King 
sobbed bitterly in spite of the arms round him, 
and the murmur of comfort on his heated little 
forehead. 

Enter Patsie tumultuously, embarrassed by sev- 
eral lengths of the commissioner’s pet mahseer- 
rod. “Turn along, Toby! Zere’s a chu-chu lizard 
in ze chick, and I’ve told Chimo to> watch him till 
we turn. If we poke him wiz zis, his tail will go 
wiggle-wiggle and fall off. Turn along! I can’t 
weach.” 

“I’m cornin’,” said His Majesty the King, 
climbing down from the commissioner’s wife’s 
knee after a hasty kiss. 

Two minutes later, the chu-chu lizard’s tail was 
wriggling on the matting of the veranda, and the 
children were gravely poking it with splinters 
from the chick, to urge its exhausted vitality into 
“just one wiggle more, ’cause it doesn’t hurt chu- 
chu r 

The commissioner’s wife stood in the door-way 
and watched : “Poor little mite ! A blue sash — 
and my own precious Patsie! I wonder if the 


1 6 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

best of us, or we who love them best, ever under- 
stand what goes on in their topsy-turvy little 
heads ?” 

A big tear splashed on the commissioner’s 
wife’s wedding-ring, and she went indoors to de- 
vise a tea for the benefit of His Majesty the King. 

“Their souls aren’t in their tummies at that age 
in this climate,” said the commissioner’s wife, 
“hut they are not far off. I wonder if I could 
make Mrs. Austell understand. Poor little fel- 
low !” 

With simple craft, the commissioner’s wife 
called on Mrs. Austell and spoke long and lov- 
ingly about children; inquiring specially for His 
Majesty the King. 

“He’s with his governess,” said Mrs. Austell, 
and the tone intimated that she was not interested. 

The commissioner’s wife, unskilled in the art of 
war, continued her questionings. “I don’t know,” 
said Mrs. Austell. “These things are left to Miss 
Biddums, and, of couse, she does not ill-treat the 
child.” 

The commissioner’s wife left hastily. The last 
sentence jarred upon her nerves. “Doesn’t ill- 
treat the child! As if that were all! I wonder 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 1 7 

what Tom would say if I only ‘didn’t ill-treat’ 
Patsie !” 

Thenceforward His Majesty the King was an 
honored guest at the commissioner’s house, and 
the chosen friend of Patsie, with whom he blun- 
dered into as many scrapes as the compound and 
the servants’ quarters afforded. Patsie’s mamma 
was always ready to give counsel, help, and sym- 
pathy, and, if need were, and callers few, to enter 
into their games with an abandon that would have 
shocked the sleek-haired subalterns who squirmed 
painfully in their chairs when they came to call on 
her whom they profanely nicknamed “Mother 
Bunch.” 

Yet, in spite of Patsie and Patsie’s mamma, and 
the love that these two lavished upon him, His 
Majesty the King fell grievously from grace, and 
committed no less a sin than that of theft — un- 
known, it is true, but burdensome. 

There came a man to the door one day, when 
His Majesty was playing in the hall, and the 
bearer had gone to dinner, with a packet for His 
Majesty’s mamma. And he put it upon the hall 
table, said that there was no answer, and departed. 

Presently, the pattern of the dado ceased to in- 


1 8 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

terest His Majesty, while the packet — a white, 
neatly-wrapped one of fascinating shape — inter- 
ested him very much indeed. His mamma was 
out, so was Miss Biddums, and there was pink 
string round the packet. He greatly desired the 
pink string. It would help him in many of his 
little businesses — the haulage across the floor of 
his small cane chair, the torturing of Chimo, who 
could never understand harness — and so forth. 
If he took the string, it would be his own, and no- 
body would be any the wiser. He certainly could 
not pluck up sufficient courage to ask mamma for 
it. Wherefore, mounting upon a chair, he care- 
fully untied the string, and, behold, the stiff white 
paper spread out in four directions, and revealed 
a beautiful little leather box with gold lines upon 
it ! He tried to replace the string, but that was a 
failure. So he opened the box to get full satisfac- 
tion for his iniquity, and saw a most beautiful star 
that shone and winked, and was altogether lovely 
and desirable. 

“Vat,” said His Majesty, meditatively, “is a 
’parkle cwown, like what I will wear when I go to 
heaven. I will wear it on my head — Miss Bid- 
dums says so. I would like to wear it now. 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


19 


I would like to play wiv it. I will take 
it away and play wiv it, very careful, until 
mamma asks for it. I fink it was bought for me 
to play wiv — same as my cart.” 

His Majesty the King was arguing against his 
conscience, and he knew it, for he thought imme- 
diately after: “Never mind. I will keep it to 
play wiv until mamma says where is it, and then 
I will say : ‘I tookt it, and I am sorry.' I will not 
hurt it, because it is a ’parkle cwown. But Miss 
Biddums will tell me to put it back. I will not 
show it to Miss Biddums.” 

If mamma had come in at that moment, all 
would have gone well. She did not, and His 
Majesty the King stuffed paper, case, and jewel 
into the breast of his blouse, and marched to the 
nursery. 

“When mamma asks, I will tell,” was the salve 
that he laid upon his conscience. But mamma 
never asked, and for three whole days His Maj- 
esty the King gloated over his treasure. It was 
of no earthly use to him, but it was splendid, and, 
for aught he knew, something dropped from the 
heavens themselves. Still mamma made no in- 
quiries, and it seemed to him, in his furtive peeps, 


20 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


as though the shiny stones grew dim. What was 
the use of a ’parkle cwown if it made a little boy 
feel all bad in his inside ? He had the pink string 
as well as the other treasure, but greatly he wished 
that he had not gone beyond the string. It was 
his first experience of iniquity, and it pained him 
after the flush of possession and secret delight in 
the “ ’parkle cwown” had died away. 

Each day that he delayed rendered confession 
to the people beyond the nursery doors more im- 
possible. Now and again he determined to put 
himself in the path of the beautifully attired lady 
as she was going out, and explain that he and no 
one else was the possessor of a “ ’parkle cwown,” 
most beautiful and quite uninquired for. But she 
passed hurriedly to her carriage, and the oppor- 
tunity was gone before His Majesty the King 
could draw the deep breath which clinches noble 
resolve. The dread secret cut him off from Miss 
Biddums, Patsie, and the commissioner’s wife, 
and — doubly hard fate — when he brooded over it, 
Patsie said, and told her mother, that he was 
cross. 

The days were very long to His Majesty the 
King, and the nights longer still. Miss Biddums 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


21 


had informed him, more than once, what was the 
ultimate destiny of “fieves,” and when he passed 
the interminable mud flanks of the central jail, he 
shook in his little strapped shoes. 

But release came after an afternoon spent in 
playing boats by the edge of the tank at the bottom 
of the garden. His Majesty the King went to tea, 
and, for the first time in his memory, the meal re- 
volted him. His nose was very cold, and his 
cheeks were burning hot. There was a weight 
about his feet, and he pressed his head several 
times to make sure that it was not swelling as he 
sat. 

“I feel vevy funny,” said His Majesty the King, 
rubbing his nose. “Vere’s a buzzing in my head.” 

He went to bed quietly. Miss Biddums was 
out, and the bearer undressed him. 

The sin of the “ ’parkle cwown” was forgotten 
in the acuteness of the discomfort to which he 
roused after a leaden sleep of some hours. He 
was thirsty, and the bearer had forgotten to leave 
the drinking-water. “Miss Biddums ! Miss Bid- 
dums ! I’m so kirsty !” 

No answer. Miss Biddums had leave to at- 


22 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


tend the wedding of a Calcutta school-mate. His 
Majesty the King had forgotten that. 

“I want a dwink of water!” he cried, but his 
voice was dried up in his throat. “I want a dwink! 
Vere is ve glass?” 

He sat up in bed and looked round. There was 
a murmur of voices from the other side of the 
nursery door. It was better to face the terrible 
unknown than to choke in the dark. He slipped 
out of bed, but his feet were strangely willful, and 
he reeled once or twice. Then he pushed the door 
open and staggered — a puffed and purple-faced 
little figure — into the brilliant light of the dining- 
room full of pretty ladies. 

“I’m vevy hot ! I’m vevy uncomfitivle,” 
moaned His Majesty the King, clinging to the 
portiere, “and vere’s no water in ve glass, and I’m 
so kirsty. Give me a dwink of water.” 

An apparition in black and white — His Majesty 
the King could hardly see distinctly — lifted him 
up to the level of the table, and felt his wrists and 
forehead. The water came, and he drank deeply, 
his teeth chattering against the edge of the tum- 
bler. Then everyone seemed to go away — every- 
one except the huge man in black and white, who 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 23 

carried him back to his bed ; the mother and father 
following. And the sin of the “ ’parkle cwown” 
rushed back and took possession of the terrified 
soul. 

“I’m a fief!” he gasped. “I want to tell Miss 
Biddums vat I’m a fief. Vere is Miss Biddums ?” 

Miss Biddums had come and was bending over 
him. “I’m a fief,” he whispered. “A fief — like 
ve men in the pwison. But I’ll tell now. I tookt 
— I tookt ve ’parkle cwown when the man that 
came left it in ve hall. I bwoke ve paper and ve 
little bwown box, and it looked shiny, and I tookt 
it to play wiv, and I was afwaid. It’s in ve dooly- 
box at ve bottom. No one never asked for it, but 
I was afwaid. Oh, go an’ get ve dooly-box !” 

Miss Biddums obediently stooped to the lowest 
shelf of the almirah and unearthed the big paper 
box in which His Majesty the King kept his dear- 
est possessions. Under the tin soldiers, and a 
layer of mud pellets for a pellet-bow, winked and 
blazed a diamond star, wrapped roughly in a half- 
sheet of note-paper whereon were a few words. 

Somebody was crying at the head of the bed, 
and a man’s hand touched the forehead of His 


24 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Majesty the King, who grasped the packet and 
spread it on the bed. 

“Vat is ve ’parkle cwown,” he said, and wept 
bitterly; for now that he had made restitution he 
would fain have kept the shining splendor with 
him. 

“It concerns you, too,” said a voice at the head 
of the bed. “Read the note. This is not the time 
to keep back anything.” 

The note was curt, very much to the point, and 
signed by a single initial — “If you wear this to- 
morrow night , I shall know what to expect !’ The 
date was three weeks old. 

A whisper followed, and the deeper voice re- 
turned: “And you drifted as far apart as that! 
I think it makes us quits now, doesn’t it? Oh, 
can’t we drop this folly, once and for all? Is it 
worth it, darling?” 

“Kiss me, too,” said His Majesty the King, 
dreamily. “You isn’t vevy angwy, is you?” 

The fever burned itself out, and His Majesty 
the King slept. 

When he waked, it was in a new world — peo- 
pled by his father and mother as well as Miss Bid- 
dums ; and there was much love in that world and 


HIS MAJESTY THE KING. 


25 


no morsel of fear, and more petting than was 
good for several little boys. His Majesty the 
King was too young to moralize on the uncer- 
tainty of things human, or he would have been 
impressed with the singular advantages of crime 
— ay, black sin. Behold, he had stolen the 
“ ’parkle cwown,” and his reward was love, and 
the right to play in the waste-paper basket under 
the table “for always.” 

* * * * * * 

He trotted over to spend an evening with 
Patsie, and the commissioner’s wife would have 
kissed him. “No, not vere,” said His Majesty the 
King, with superb insolence, fencing one corner of 
his mouth with his hand. “Vat’s my mamma’s 
place — vere she kisses me.” 

“Oh!” said the commissioner’s wife, briefly. 
Then, to herself : “Well, I suppose I ought to be 
glad for his sake. Children are selfish little grubs, 
and- -I’ve got my Patsie.” 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 


“And a little child shall lead them.” 

In the Army List they still stand as “The Fore 
and Fit Princess Hohenzollern-Sigmaringen- 
Auspach’s Merther-Tydfilshire Own Royal Loyal 
Light Infantry, Regimental District 329 A,” but 
the army through all its barracks and canteens 
knows them now as the “Fore and Aft.” They 
may in time do something that shall make their 
new title honorable, but at present they are bitterly 
ashamed, and the man who calls them “Fore and 
Aft” does so at the risk of the head which is on 
his shoulders. 

Two words breathed into the stables of a cer- 
tain cavalry regiment will bring the men into the 
streets with belts and mops and bad language; 
but a whisper of “Fore and Aft” will bring out 
this regiment with rifles. 

Their one excuse is that they came again and 
did their best to finish the job in style. But for a 
time all their world knows that they were openly 
26 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 27 


beaten, whipped, dumb-cowed, shaking, and 
afraid. The men know it ; their officers know it ; 
the Horse Guards know it ; and when the next war 
comes the enemy will know it also. There are 
two or three regiments of the line that have a 
black mark against their names which they will 
then wipe out, and it will be excessively incon- 
venient for the troops upon which thev do their 
wiping. 

The courage of the British soldier is officially 
supposed to be above proof, and, as a general rule, 
it is so. The exceptions are decently shoveled out 
of sight, only to be referred to in the freshest of 
unguarded talk that occasionally swamps a mess- 
table at midnight. Then one hears strange and 
horrible stories of men not following their offi- 
cers, of orders being given by those who had no 
right to give them, and of disgrace that, but for 
the standing luck of the British Army, might have 
ended in brilliant disaster. These are unpleasant 
stories to listen to, and the messes tell them under 
their breath, sitting by the big wood fires, and the 
young officer bows his head and thinks to himself, 
please God, his men shall never behave unhandily. 

The British soldier is not altogether to be 


28 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


blamed for occasional lapses; but this verdict he 
should not know. A moderately intelligent gen- 
eral will waste six months in mastering the craft 
of the particular war that he may be waging; a 
colonel may utterly misunderstand the capacity of 
his regiment for three months after it has taken 
the field ; and even a company commander may err 
and be deceived as to the temper and temperament 
of his own handful ; wherefore the soldier, and the 
soldier of to-day more particularly, should not be 
blamed for falling back. He should be shot or 
hanged afterward — pour encourager les autre s — 
but he should not be vilified in newspapers, for 
that is want of tact and waste of space. 

He has, let us say, been in the service of the 
empress for, perhaps, four years. He will leave 
in another two years. He has no inherited morals, 
and four years are not sufficient to drive tough- 
ness into his fiber, or to teach him how holy a 
thing is his regiment. He wants to drink, he 
wants to enjoy himself — in India he wants to 
save money — and he does not in the least like get- 
ting hurt. He had received just sufficient educa- 
tion to make him understand half the purport of 
the orders he receives, and to speculate on the na- 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 29 

ture of clean, incised, and shattering wounds. 
Thus, if he is told to deploy under fire preparatory 
to an attack, he knows that he runs a very great 
risk of being killed while he is deploying, and sus- 
pects that he is being thrown away to gain ten 
minutes’ time. He may either deploy with des- 
perate swiftness, or he may shuffle, or bunch, or 
break, according to the discipline under which he 
has lain for four years. 

Armed with imperfect knowledge, cursed with 
the rudiments of an imagination, hampered by the 
intense selfishness of the lower classes, and unsup- 
ported by any regimental associations, this young 
man is suddenly introduced to an enemy who in 
eastern lands is always ugly, generally tall and 
hairy, and frequently noisy. If he looks to the 
right and the left and sees old soldiers — men of 
twelve years’ service, who, he knows, know what 
they are about — taking a charge, rush, or demon- 
stration without embarrassment, he is consoled, 
and applies his shoulder to the butt of his rifle with 
a stout heart. His peace is the greater if he hears 
a senior, who has taught him his soldiering and 
broken his head on occasion, whispering: “They’ll 

shout and carry on like this for five minutes, then 
3 


30 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


they’ll rush in, and then we’ve got ’em by the short 
hairs !” 

But, on the other hand, if he sees only men of 
his own term of service, turning white and play- 
ing with their triggers and saying: “What’s — 
up' — now?” while the company commanders are 
sweating into their sword-hilts and shouting: 
“Front-rank, fix bayonets! Steady, there — 
steady! Sight for three hundred — no, for five! 
Lie down, all! Steady! Front-rank, kneel!” and 
so forth, he becomes unhappy ; and grows acutely 
miserable when he hears a comrade turn over with, 
the rattle of fire-irons falling into the fender, and 
the grunt of a pole-axed ox. If he can be moved 
about a little and allowed to watch the effect of his 
own fire on the enemy, he feels merrier, and may 
be then worked up to the blind passion of fighting, 
which is, contrary to general belief, controlled by 
a chilly devil and shakes men like ague. If he is 
not moved about, and begins to feel cold at the pit 
of the stomach, and in that crisis is badly mauled 
and hears orders that were never given, he will 
break, and he will break badly; and of all things 
under the sight of the sun there is nothing more 
terrible than a broken British regiment. When 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 31 

the worst comes to the worst, and the panic is 
really epidemic, the men must be e’en let go, and 
the company commanders had better escape to the 
enemy and stay there for safety’s sake. If they 
can be made to come again, they are not pleasant 
men to meet, because they will not break twice. 

About thirty years from this date, when we 
have succeeded in half-educating everything that 
wears trousers, our army will be a beautifully un- 
reliable machine. It will know too much, and it 
will do too little. Later still, when all men are at 
the mental level of the officer of to-day, it will 
sweep the earth. Speaking roughly, you must 
employ either blackguards or gentlemen, or, best 
of all, blackguards commanded by gentlemen, to 
do butcher’s work with efficiency and dispatch. 
The ideal soldier should, of course, think for him- 
self — the pocket-book says so. Unfortunately, to 
attain this virtue, he has to pass through the phase 
of thinking of himself, and that is misdirected 
genius. A blackguard may be slow to think for 
himself, but he is genuinely anxious to kill, and a 
little punishment teaches him how to guard his 
own skin and perforate another’s. A powerfully 
prayerful Highland regiment, officered by rank 


32 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Presbyterians, is, perhaps, one degree more ter- 
rible in action than a hard-bitten thousand of ir- 
responsible Irish ruffians, led by most improper 
young unbelievers. But these things prove the 
rule — which is, that the midway men are not to be 
trusted alone. They have ideas about the value 
of life and an up-bringing that has not taught 
them to go on and take the chances. They are 
carefully unprovided with a backing of comrades 
who have been shot over, and until that backing is 
reintroduced, as a great many regimental com- 
manders intend it shall be, they are more liable to 
disgrace themselves than the size of the empire or 
the dignity of the army allows. Their officers are 
as good as good can be, because their training be- 
gins early, and God has arranged that a clean-run 
youth of the British middle classes shall, in the 
matter of backbone, brains, and bowels, surpass 
all other youths. For this reason, a child of 
eighteen will stand up, doing nothing, with a tin 
sword in his hand and joy in his heart until he is 
dropped. If he dies, he dies like a gentleman. If 
he lives, he writes home that he has been “potted,” 
“sniped,” “chipped” or “cut over,” and sits down 
to besiege the government for a wound-gratuity 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 33 

until the next little war breaks out, when he per- 
jures himself before a medical board, blarneys his 
colonel, burns incense round his adjutant, and is 
allowed to go to the front once more. 

Which homily brings me directly to a brace of 
the most finished little fiends that ever banged 
drum or tooted fife in the band of a British regi- 
ment. They ended their sinful career by open and 
flagrant mutiny and were shot for it. Their 
names were Jakin and Lew — Piggy Lew — and 
they were bold, bad drummer-boys, both of them 
frequently birched by the drum-major of the Fore 
and Aft. 

Jakin was a stunted child of fourteen, and Lew 
was about the same age. When not looked after, 
they smoked and drank. They swore habitually 
after the manner of the barrack-room, which is 
cold-swearing and comes from between clinched 
teeth; and they fought religiously once a week. 
Jakin had sprung from some London gutter and 
may or may not have passed through Dr. Bar- 
nado’s hands ere he arrived at the dignity of 
drummer-boy. Lew could remember nothing ex- 
cept the regiment and the delight of listening to 
the band from his earliest years. He hid some- 


34 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


where in his grimy little soul a genuine love for 
music, and was most mistakenly furnished with 
the head of a cherub; insomuch that beautiful 
ladies who watched the regiment in church were 
wont to speak of him as a “darling.” They never 
heard his vitriolic comments on their manners 
and morals, as he walked back to barracks with 
the band and matured fresh causes of offense 
against Jakin. 

The other drummer-boys hated both lads on ac- 
count of their illogical conduct. Jakin might be 
pounding Lew, or Lew might be rubbing Jakin’ s 
head in the dirt ; but any attempt at aggression on 
the part of an outsider was met by the combined 
forces of Lew and Jakin, and the consequences 
were painful. The boys were the Ishmaels of the 
corps, but wealthy Ishmaels, for they sold battles 
in alternate weeks for the sport of the barracks 
when they were not pitted against other boys ; and 
thus amassed money. 

On this particular day there was dissension in 
the camp. They had just been convicted afresh of 
smoking, which is bad for little boys who use 
plug tobacco, and Lew’s contention was that Jakin 
had “stunk so ’orrid bad from keepin’ the pipe in 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 35 


his pocket,” that he and he alone was responsible 
for the birching they were both tingling under. 

“I tell you I ’id the pipe back o’ barricks,” said 
Jakin pacifically. 

“You’re a bloomin' liar,” said Lew, without 
heat. “You might ha’ kep’ that till I wasn’t so 
sore,” sorrowfully, dodging round Jakin’s guard. 

“I’ll make you sorer,” said Jakin, genially, and 
got home on Lew’s alabaster forehead. All would 
have gone well and this story, as the books say, 
would never have been written, had not his evil 
fate prompted the bazaar-sergeant’s son, a long, 
employless man of five-and-twenty, to put in ap- 
pearance after the first round. He was eternally 
in need of money, and knew that the boys had 
silver. 

“Fighting again,” said he. “I’ll report you to 
my father, and he’ll report you to the color-ser- 
geant.” 

“What’s that to you?” said Jakin, with an un- 
pleasant dilation of the nostrils. 

“Oh! nothing to me. You’ll get into trouble, 
and you’ve been up too often to afford that.” 

“What do you know about what we’ve done?” 
asked Lew, the Seraph. 


36 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


“You aren’t in the army, you cadging civilian !” 

He closed in on the man’s left flank. 

“Jes’ ’cause you find two gentlemen settlin’ 
their differences with their fistes, you stick in your 
ugly nose where you aren’t wanted. Run ’ome to 
your ’arf-caste ma — or we’ll give you what-for,” 
said Jakin. 

The man attempted reprisals by knocking the 
boys’ heads together. The scheme would have 
succeeded had not Jakin punched him vehemently 
in the stomach, or had Lew refrained from kick- 
ing his shins. They fought together, bleeding and 
breathless, for half an hour, and, after heavy pun- 
ishment, triumphantly pulled down their opponent 
as terriers pull down a jackal. 

“Now,” gasped Jakin, “I’ll give you what-for.” 
He proceeded to pound the man’s features while 
Lew stamped on the outlying portions of his anat- 
omy. Chivalry is not a strong point in the com- 
position of the average drummer-boy. He fights, 
as do his betters, to make his mark. 

Ghastly was the ruin that escaped, and awful 
was the wrath of the bazaar-sergeant. Awful, too, 
was the scene in the orderly-room when the two 
reprobates appeared to answer the charge of half- 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 37 

murdering a “civilian.” The bazaar-sergeant 
thirsted for a criminal action, and his son lied. 
The boys stood to attention while the black clouds 
of evidence accumulated. 

“You little devils are more trouble than the rest 
of the regiment put together,” said the colonel, 
angrily. “One might as well admonish thistle- 
down, and I can’t well put you in cells or under 
stoppages. You must be flogged again.” 

“Beg y’ pardon, sir. Can’t we say nothin’ in 
our own defense, sir?” shrilled Jakin. 

“Hey! What? Are you going to argue with 
me?” said the colonel. 

“No, sir,” said Lew. “But if a man come to 
you, sir, and said he was going to report you, sir, 
for ’aving a bit of a turn-up with a friend, sir, an’ 
wanted to get money out o’ you, sir — ” 

The orderly-room exploded in a roar of laugh- 
ter. “Well?” said the colonel. 

“That was what that measly jarnwar there did, 
sir, and ’e’d a’ done it, sir, if we ’adn’t prevented 
’im. We didn’t ’it ’im much, sir. ’E ’adn’t no 
manner o’ right to interfere with us, sir. I don’t 
mind bein’ flogged by the drum-major, sir, nor 
yet reported by any corporal, but I’m — but I don’t 


3 « 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


think it’s fair, sir, for a civilian to come an’ talk 
over a man in the army.” 

A second shout of laughter shook the orderly- 
room, but the colonel was grave. 

“What sort of characters have these boys ?” he 
asked of the regimental sergeant-major. 

“Accordin’ to the bandmaster, sir,” returned 
that revered official — the only soul in the regiment 
whom the boys feared — “they do everything but 
lie, sir.” 

“Is it like we’d go for that man for fun, sir?” 
said Lew, pointing to the plaintiff. 

“Oh, admonished — admonished!” said the col- 
onel, testily, and, when the boys had gone, he read 
the bazaar-sergeant’s son a lecture on the sin of 
unprofitable meddling, and gave orders that the 
bandmaster should keep the drums in better disci- 
pline. 

“If either of you come to practice again with so 
much as a scratch on your two ugly little faces,” 
thundered the bandmaster, “I’ll tell the drum- 
major to take the skin off your backs. Under- 
stand that, you young devils.” 

Then he repented of his speech for just the 
length of time that Lew, looking like a seraph in 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 39 

red-worsted embellishments, took the place of one 
of the trumpets — in hospital — and rendered the 
echo of a battle-piece. Lew certainly was a mu- 
sician, and had often, in his more exalted mo- 
ments, expressed a yearning to master every in- 
strument of the band. 

“There’s nothing to prevent your becoming a 
bandmaster, Lew,” said the bandmaster, who had 
composed waltzes of his own, and worked day and 
night in the interests of the band. 

“What did he say?” demanded Jakin, after 
practice. 

“Said I might be a bloomin’ bandmaster, an’ be 
asked in to ’ave a glass o’ sherry-wine on mess- 
nights.” 

“Ho! Said you might be a bloomin’ non-com- 
batant, did ’e? That’s just about wot ’e would 
say. When I’ve put in my boy’s service — it’s a 
bloomin’ shame that doesn’t count for pension — 
I’ll take on a privit. Then, I’ll be a lance in a year 
— knowin’ what I know about the ins an’ outs o’ 
things. In three years, I’ll be a bloomin’ sergeant. 
I won’t marry then, not I ! I’ll ’old on, and learn 
the orf’cers’ ways, an’ apply for exchange into a 
reg’ment that doesn’t know all about me. Then, 


40 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


I’ll be a bloomin’ orf’cer. Then, I’ll ask you to 
’ave a glass o’ sherry-wine, Mister Lew, an’ you’ll 
bloomin’ well ’ave to stay in the hanty-room while 
the mess-sergeant brings it to your dirty ’ands.” 

“S’pose /’m going to be a bandmaster? Not I, 
quite. I’ll be a orf’cer, too. There’s nothin’ like 
taking to a thing an’ stickin’ to it, the schoolmas- 
ter says. The reg’ment don’t go ’ome for another 
seven years. I’ll be a lance then or near to.” 

Thus the boys discussed their future, and con- 
ducted themselves with exemplary piety for a 
week. That is to say, Lew started a flirtation with 
the color-sergeant’s daughter, aged thirteen — 
“not,” as he explained to- Jakin, “with any inten- 
tion o’ matrimony, but by way o’ keepin’ my ’and 
in.” And the black-haired Cris Delighan enjoyed 
that flirtation more than previous ones, and the 
other drummer-boys raged furiously together, 
and Jakin preached sermons on the dangers of 
“bein’ tangled along o’ petticoats.” 

But neither love nor virtue would have held 
Lew long in the paths of propriety, had not the 
rumor gone abroad that the regiment was to be 
sent on active service, to take part in a war which, 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 41 

for the sake of brevity, we will call “The War of 
the Lost Tribes.” 

The barracks had the rumor almost before the 
mess-room, and of all the nine hundred men in 
barracks not ten had seen a shot fired in anger. 
The colonel had, twenty years ago, assisted at a 
frontier expedition; one of the majors had seen 
service at the Cape; a confirmed deserter in E 
Company had helped to clear streets in Ireland; 
but that was all. The regiment had been put by 
for many years. The overwhelming mass of its 
rank and file had from three to four years’ service ; 
the non-commissioned officers were under thirty 
years old; and men and sergeants alike had for- 
gotten to speak of the stories, written in brief 
upon the colors — the new colors that had been 
formally blessed by an archbishop in England ere 
the regiment came away. 

They wanted to go to the front — they were en- 
thusiastically anxious to go — but they had no 
knowledge of what war meant, and there was 
none to tell them. They were an educated regi- 
ment, the percentage of school certificates in their 
ranks was high, and most of the men could do 
more than read and write. They had been re- 


42 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


cruited in loyal observance of the territorial idea ; 
but they themselves had no notion of that idea. 
They were made up of drafts from an overpopu- 
lated manufacturing district. The system had put 
flesh and muscle upon their small bones, but it 
could not put heart into the sons of those who for 
generations had done over-much work for over- 
scanty pay, had sweated in drying-rooms, stooped 
over looms, coughed among white-lead, and shiv- 
ered on lime-barges. The men had found food 
and rest in the army, and now they were going to 
fight “niggers” — people who ran away if you 
shook a stick at them. Wherefore they cheered 
lustily when the rumor ran, and the shrewd, 
clerkly, non-commissioned officers speculated on 
the chances of battle and of saving their pay. At 
head-quarters, men said : “The Fore and Fit 
have never been under fire within the last genera- 
tion. Let us, therefore, break them in easily by 
setting them to guard lines of communication.” 
And this would have been done but for the fact 
that British regiments were wanted — badly 
wanted — at the front, and there were doubtful 
native regiments that could fill the minor duties. 
‘’Brigade ’em with two strong regiments,” said 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 43 

head-quarters. “They may be knocked about a 
bit, but they’ll learn their business before they 
come through. Nothing like a night-alarm and a 
little cutting-up of stragglers to make a regiment 
smart in the field. Wait till they’ve had half-a- 
dozen sentries’ throats cut.” 

The colonel wrote with delight that the temper 
of his men was excellent, that the regiment was 
all that could be wished, and as sound as a bell. 
The majors smiled with a sober joy, and the sub- 
alterns waltzed in pairs down the mess-room after 
dinner and nearly shot themselves at revolver- 
practice. But there was consternation in the 
hearts of Jakin and Lew. What was to be done 
with the drums ? Would the band go to the front ? 
How many of the drums would accompany the 
regiment ? 

They took council together, sitting in a tree and 
smoking. 

“It’s more than a bloomin’ toss-up they’ll leave 
us be’ind at the depot with the women. You’ll 
like that,” said Jakin, sarcastically. 

“ ’Cause o’ Cris, y’ mean? Wot’s a woman, or 
a ’ole bloomin’ depot o’ women, ’longside o’ the 


44 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


chanst of field-service? You know I’m as keen on 
goin’ as you,” said Lew. 

“Wish I was a bloomin’ bugler,” said Jakin, 
sadly. “They’ll take Tom Kidd along, that I can 
plaster a wall with, an’ like as not they won’t take 
us.” 

“Then let’s go an’ make Tom Kidd so bloomin' 
sick ’e can’t bugle no more. You ’old ’is ’ands, 
an’ I’ll kick him,” said Lew, wriggling on the 
branch. 

“That ain’t no good, neither. We ain’t the sort 
o’ characters to presoom on our rep’tations — 
they’re bad. If they have the band at the depot 
we don’t go, and no error there. If they take the 
band we may get cast for medical unfitness. Are 
you medical fit, Piggy?” said Jakin, digging Lew 
in the ribs with force. 

“Yus,” said Lew, with an oath. “The doctor 
says your ’eart’s weak through smokin’ on an 
empty stummick. Throw a chest, an’ I’ll try yer.” 

Jakin threw out his chest, which Lew smote 
with all his might. Jakin turned very pale, 
gasped, crowed, screwed up his eyes, and said : 
“That’s all right.” 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 45 

“You’ll do,” said Lew. “I’ve ’eard o’ men dyin’ 
when you ’it ’em fair on the breast-bone.” 

“Don’t bring us no nearer goin’, though,” said 
Jakin. “Do you know where we’re ordered ?” 

“Gawd knows, an’ ’e won’t split on a pal. 
Somewheres up to the front to kill Paythans — 
hairy big beggars that turn you inside out if they 
get ’old o’ you. They say their women are good- 
looking, too.” 

“Any loot?” asked the abandoned Jakin. 

“Not a bloomin’ anna, they say, unless you dig 
up the ground an’ see what the niggers ’ave ’id. 
They’re a poor lot.” Jakin stood upright on the 
branch and gazed across the plain. 

“Lew,” said he, “there’s the colonel coming. 
Colonel’s a good old beggar. Let’s go an’ talk to 
’im.” 

Lew nearly fell out of the tree at the audacity 
of the suggestion. Like Jakin, he feared not God, 
neither regarded he man, but there are limits even 
to the audacity of drummer-boy, and to speak to a 
colonel was — 

But Jakin had slid down the trunk and doubled 
in the direction of the colonel. That officer was 

walking wrapped in thought and visions of a C. 

4 


46 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


B. — yes, even a K. C. B., for had he not at com- 
mand one of the best regiments of the line — the 
Fore and Fit? And he was aware of two small 
boys charging down upon him. Once before, it 
had been solemnly reported to him that “the 
drums were in a state of mutiny;” Jakin and Lew 
being the ringleaders. This looked like an organ- 
ized conspiracy. 

The boys halted at twenty yards, walked to the 
regulation four paces, and saluted together, each 
as well set-up as a ramrod and little taller. 

The colonel was in a genial mood ; the boys ap- 
peared very forlorn and unprotected on the deso- 
late plain, and one of them was handsome. 

“Well!” said the colonel, recognizing them. 
“Are you going to pull me down in the open ? I’m 
sure I never interfere with you, even though” — 
he sniffed suspiciously — “you have been smok- 
ing.” 

It was time to strike while the iron was hot. 
Their hearts beat tumultuously. 

“Beg y’ pardon, sir,” began Jakin. “The 
reg’ment’s ordered on active service, sir?” 

“So I believe,” said the colonel, courteously. 

“Is the band goin’, sir?” said both together. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 47 


Then, without pause, “We’re goin’, sir, ain’t we?” 

“You !” said the colonel, stepping back the more 
fully to take in the two small figures. “You! 
You’d die in the first march.” 

“No, we wouldn’t, sir. We can march with the 
reg’ment anywhere — p’rade an’ anywhere else,” 
said Jakin. 

“If Tom Kidd goes, ’e’ll shut up like a clasp- 
knife,” said Lew. “Tom ’as very close veins in 
both ’is legs, sir.” 

“Very how much?” 

“Very close veins, sir. That’s why they swells 
after long p’rade, sir. If ’e can go, we can go, 
sir.” 

Again the colonel looked at them long and in- 
tently. 

“Yes, the band is going,” he said as gravely as 
though he had been addressing a brother officer. 
“Have you any parents, either of you two?” 

“No, sir,” rejoicingly from Lew and Jakin. 
“We’re both orphans, sir. There’s no one to be 
considered of on our account, sir.” 

“You poor little sprats, and you want to go up 
to the front with the regiment, do you ? Why ?” 

“I’ve wore the queen’s uniform for two years,” 


48 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


said Jakin. “It’s very ’ard, sir, that a man don’t 
get no recompense for doin’ ’is dooty, sir.” 

“An’ — an’ if I don’t go, sir,” interrupted Lew, 
“the bandmaster ’e says ’e’ll catch an’ make a 
bloo — a blessed musician o’ me, sir. Before I’ve 
seen any service, sir.” 

The colonel made no answer for a long time. 
Then he said, quietly: “If you’re passed by the 
doctor, I dare say you can go. I shouldn’t smoke 
if I were you.” 

The boys saluted and disappeared. The colonel 
walked home and told the story to his wife, who 
nearly cried over it. The colonel was well pleased. 
If that was the temper of the children, what would 
not the men do? 

Jakin and Lew entered the boys’ barrack-room 
with great stateliness, and refused to hold any 
conversation with their comrades for at least ten 
minutes. Then, bursting with pride, Jakin 
drawled : “I’ve bin intervooin’ the colonel. Good 
old beggar is the colonel. Says I to ’im, ‘colonel,’ 
says I, ‘let me go to the front, along o’ the reg’- 
ment.’ ‘To the front you shall go,’ says ’e, ‘an’ I 
only wish there was more like you among the dirty 
little devils that bang the bloomin’ drums.’ Kidd. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 49 

if you throw your ’conferments at me for tellin’ 
you the truth to your own advantage, your legs ’ll 
swell.” 

None the less there was a battle-royal in the 
barrack-room, for the boys were consumed with 
envy and hate, and neither Jakin nor Lew behaved 
in conciliatory wise. 

“I’m goin’ out to say adoo to my girl,” said 
Lew, to cap the climax. “Don’t none o’ you touch 
my kit because it’s wanted for active service, me 
bein’ specially invited to go by the colonel.” 

He strolled forth and whistled in the clump of 
trees at the back of the married quarters till Cris 
came to him, and, the preliminary kisses being 
given and taken, Lew began to explain the situa- 
tion. 

“I’m goin’ to the front with the reg’ment,” he 
said, valiantly. 

“Piggy, you’re a little liar,” said Cris, but her 
heart misgave her, for Lew was not in the habit of 
lying. 

“Liar yourself, Cris,” said Lew, slipping an arm 
round her. “I’m goin’. When the reg’ment 
marches out you’ll see me with ’em, all galliant and 


50 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


gay. Give us another kiss, Cris, on the strength 
of it.” 

“If you’d on’y a-stayed at the depot — where 
you ought to ha’ bin — you could get as many of 
’em as — as you please,” whimpered Cris, putting 
up her mouth. 

“It’s ’ard, Cris. I grant you, it’s ’ard. But 
what’s a man to do? If I’d a-stayed at the depot, 
you wouldn’t think anything of me.” 

“Like as not, but I’d ’ave you with me, Piggy. 
An’ all the thinkin’ in the world isn’t like kissin’.” 

“An’ all the kissin’ in the world isn’t like ’avin’ 
a medal to wear on the front o’ your coat.” 

“You won’t get no medal. v 

“Oh, vus, I shall, though. Me an’ Jakin are the 
only acting-drummers that’ll be took along. All 
the rest is full men, an’ we’ll get our medals with 
them.” 

“They might ha’ taken anybody but you, Piggy. 
You’ll get killed — you’re so venturesome. Stay 
with me, Piggy, darlin’, down at the depot, an’ 
I’ll love you true for ever.” 

“Ain’t you goin’ to do that now , Cris? You 
said you was.” 

“O’ course I am, but th’ other’s more comfort- 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 5 1 

able. Wait till you've growed a bit, Piggy. You 
aren’t no taller than me now.” 

“I’ve bin in the army for two years an’ I’m not 
goin’ to get out of a chanst o’ seein’ service an’ 
don’t you try to make me do so. I’ll come back, 
Cris, an’ when I take on as a man I’ll marry you — 
marry you when I’m a lance.” 

“Promise, Piggy?” 

Lew reflected on the future as arranged by 
Jakin a short time previously, but Cris’s mouth 
was very near to his own. 

“I promise, s’elp me Gawd !” said he. 

Cris slid an arm round his neck. 

“I won’t ’old you back no more, Piggy. Go 
away an’ get your medal, an’ I’ll make you a new 
button-bag as nice as I know how,” she whispered. 

“Put some o’ your ’air into it, Cris, an’ I’ll keep 
it in my pocket so long’s I’m alive.” 

Then Cris wept anew, and the interview ended. 
Public feeling among the drummer-boys rose to 
fever pitch, and the lives of Jakin and Lew be- 
came unenviable. Not only had they been per- 
mitted to enlist two years before the regulation 
boy’s age — fourteen — but, by virtue, it seemed, of 
their extreme youth, they were allowed to go to 


52 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


the front — which thing had not happened to act- 
ing-drummers within the knowledge of boy. The 
band which was to accompany the regiment had 
been cut down to the regulation twenty men, the 
surplus returning to the ranks. Jakin and Lew 
were attached to the band as supernumeraries, 
though they would much have preferred being 
company buglers. 

“Don’t matter much,” said Jakin, after the med- 
ical inspection. “Be thankful that we’re ’lowed to 
go at all. The doctor ’e said that if we could 
stand what we took from the bazaar-sergeant’s 
son, we’d stand pretty nigh anything.” 

“Which we will,” said Lew, looking tenderly at 
the ragged and ill-made housewife that Cris had 
given him, with a lock of her hair worked into a 
sprawling “L” upon the cover. 

“It was the best I could,” she sobbed. “I 
wouldn’t let mother nor the sergeant’s tailor ’elp 
me. Keep it always, Piggy, an’ remember I love 
you true.” 

They marched to the railway station, nine hun- 
dred and sixty strong, and every soul in canton- 
ments turned out to see them go. The drum- 
mers gnashed their teeth at Jakin and Lew march- 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 53 

in g with the band, the married women wept upon 
the platform, and the regiment cheered its noble 
self black in the face. 

“A nice level lot,” said the colonel to the second 
in command as they watched the first four com- 
panies entraining. 

“Fit to do anything,” said the second in com- 
mand, enthusiastically. “But it seems to me 
they’re a thought too young and tender for the 
work in hand. It’s bitter cold up at the front 
now.” 

“They’re sound enough,” said the colonel. “We 
must take our chance of sick casualties.” 

So they went northward, ever northward, past 
droves and droves of camels, armies of camp fol- 
lowers, and legions of laden mules, the throng 
thickening day by day, till with a shriek the train 
pulled up at a hopelessly congested junction where 
six lines of temporary track accommodated six 
forty-wagon trains; where whistles blew, Babus 
sweated, and commissariat officers swore from 
dawn till far into the night amid the wind-driven 
chaff of the fodder-bales and the lowing of a 
thousand steers. 

“Hurry up — you’re badly wanted at the front,” 


54 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


was the message that greeted the Fore and Aft, 
and the occupants of the Red Cross carriages told 
the same tale. 

“ ’Tisn’t so much the bloomin’ fightin’,” gasped 
a headbound trooper of hussars to a knot of ad- 
miring Fore and Afts. “ ’Tisn’t so much the 
bloomin’ fightin’, though there’s enough O 1 ’ that. 
It’s the bloomin’ food an’ the bloomin’ climate. 
Frost all night ’cept when it hails, an’ bilin’ sun all 
day, an’ the water stinks fit to knock you down. I 
got my ’ead chipped like a egg; I’ve got pneu- 
monia, too, an’ I’m all out o’ order. ’Tain’t no 
bloomin’ picnic in those parts, I can tell you.” 

“Wot are the niggers like?” demanded a pri- 
vate. 

“There’s some prisoners in that train yonder. 
Go an’ look at ’em. They’re the aristocracy o’ the 
country. The common folk are a dashed sight 
uglier. If you want to know what they fight with, 
reach under my seat an’ pull out the long knife 
that’s there.” 

They dragged out and beheld for the first time 
the grim, bone-handled, triangular Afghan knife. 
It was almost as long as Lew. 

“That’s the think to j’int ye,” said the trooper, 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 55 

feebly. “It can take off a man's arm at the 
shoulder as easy as slicing butter. I halved the 
beggar that used that ’un, but there’s more of his 
likes up above. They don’t understand thrustin’, 
but they slice !” 

The men strolled across the tracks to inspect the 
Afghan prisoners. They were unlike any “nig- 
gers” that the Fore and Aft had ever met — these 
huge, black-haired, scowling sons of the Beni- 
Israei. # As the men stared, the Afghans spat 
freely and muttered one to another with lowered 
eyes. 

“My eyes ! Wot awful swine !” said Jakin, who 
was in the rear of the procession. “Say, old man, 
how you got puck-rowed, eh? Kiswasti you 
wasn’t hanged for your ugly face, hey ?” 

The tallest of the company turned, his leg-irons 
clanking at the movement, and stared at the boy. 
“See!” he cried to his fellows in Pushto, “they 
send children against us. What a people, and 
what fools!” 

“Hya!” said Jakin, nodding his head, cheerily. 
“You go down-country. Khana get, peenikapanee 
get — live like a bloomin’ rajah ke marfik. That’s 
a better bandobust than baynit get it in your in- 


56 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


nards. Good-bye, old man. Take care o’ your 
beautiful figure-’ed, an’ try to look knshy.” 

The men laughed and fell in for their first 
march when they began to realize that a soldier’s 
life was not all beer and skittles. They were much 
impressed with the size and bestial ferocity of the 
niggers, whom they had now learned to call “Pay- 
thans,” and more with the exceeding discomfort 
of their own surroundings. Twenty old soldiers 
in the corps would have taught them how to make 
themselves moderately snug at night, but they had 
no old soldiers, and, as the troops on the line of 
march said, “they lived like pigs.” They learned 
the heart-breaking cussedness of camp-kitchens 
and camels and the depravity of an E. P. tent and 
a wither-wrung mule. They studied animalcule 
in water, and developed a few cases of dysentery 
in their study. 

At the end of their third march they were dis- 
agreeably surprised by the arrival in their camp of 
a hammered iron slug which, fired from a steadv- 
rest at seven hundred yards, flicked out the brains 
of a private seated by the fire. This robbed them 
of their peace for a night, and was the beginning 
of a long-range fire carefully calculated to that 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 57 

end. In the day-time, they saw nothing except an 
occasional puff of smoke from a crag above the 
line of march. At night, there were distant spurts 
of flame and occasional casualties, which set the 
whole camp blazing into the gloom, and, occasion- 
ally, into opposite tents. Then they swore ve- 
hemently and vowed that this was magnificent but 
not war. 

Indeed it was not. The regiment could not halt 
for reprisals against the franctireurs of the coun- 
try-side. Its duty was to go forward and make 
connection with the Scotch and Gurkha troops 
with which it was brigaded. The Afghans knew 
this, and knew, too, after their first tentative shots, 
that they were dealing with a raw regiment. 
Thereafter they devoted themselves to the task of 
keeping the Fore and Aft on the strain. Not for 
anything would they have taken equal liberties 
with a seasoned corps — with the wicked little 
Gurkhas, whose delight it was to lie out in the 
open on a dark night and stalk their stalkers — 
with the terrible, big men dressed in women’s 
clothes, who could be heard praying to their God 
in the night-watches, and whose peace of mind no 
amount of “snipping” could shake — or with those 


58 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


vile Sikhs, who marched so ostentatiously unpre- 
pared, and who dealt out such grim reward to 
those who tried to profit by that unpreparedness. 
This white regiment was different — quite differ- 
ent. It slept like a hog, and, like a hog, charged 
in every direction when it was roused. Its sentries 
walked with a footfall that could be heard for a 
quarter of a mile; would fire at anything that 
moved — even a driven donkey — and when they 
had once fired, could be scientifically “rushed” and 
laid out a horror and an offense against the morn- 
ing sun. Then there were camp-followers who 
straggled and could be cut up without fear. Their 
shrieks would disturb the white boys, and the loss 
of their services would inconvenience them sorely. 

Thus, at every march, the hidden enemy became 
bolder and the regiment writhed and twisted un- 
der attacks it could not avenge. The crowning 
triumph was a sudden night-rush ending in the 
cutting of many tent-ropes, the collapse of the 
sudden canvas and a glorious knifing of the men 
who struggled and kicked below. It was a great 
deed, neatly carried out, and it shook the already 
shaken nerves of the Fore and Aft. All the cour- 
age that they had been required to exercise up to 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 59 

this point was the “two o’clock in the morning 
courage;” and they, so far, had only succeeded in 
shooting their comrades and losing their sleep. 

Sullen, discontented, cold, savage, sick, with 
their uniforms dulled and unclean, the Fore and 
Aft joined their brigade. 

“I hear you had a tough time of it coming up,” 
said the brigadier. But when he saw the hospital- 
sheets his face fell. 

“This is bad,” said he to himself. “They’re as 
rotten as sheep.” And aloud to the colonel, “I’m 
afraid we can’t spare you just yet. We want all 
we have, else I should have given you ten days to 
recruit in.” 

The colonel winced. “On my honor, sir,” he 
returned, “there is not the least necessity to think 
of sparing us. My men have been rather mauled 
and upset without a fair return. They only want 
to go in somewhere where they can see what’s be- 
fore them.” 

“Can’t say I think much of the Fore and Aft,” 
said the brigadier in confidence to his brigade- 
major. “They’ve lost all their soldiering, and, by 
the trim of them, might have marched through 


6o 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


the country from the other side. A more fagged- 
out set of men I never put eyes on.” 

“Oh, they’ll improve as the work goes on. The 
parade gloss has been rubbed off a little, but they’ll 
put on field polish before long,” said the brigade- 
major. “They’ve been mauled, and they don’t 
quite understand it.” 

They did not. All the hitting was on one side, 
and it was cruelly hard hitting with accessories 
that made them sick. There was also the real 
sickness that laid hold of a strong man and 
dragged him howling to the grave. Worst of all, 
their officers knew just as little of the country as 
the men themselves, and looked as if they did. 
The Fore and Aft were in a thoroughly unsatis- 
factory condition, but they believed that all would 
be well if they once got a fair go-in at the enemy. 
Pot-shots up and down the valleys were unsatis- 
factory, and the bayonet never seemed to get a 
chance. Perhaps it was as well, for a long-limbed 
Afghan with a knife had a reach of eight feet, and 
could carry away enough lead to disable three 
Englishmen. The Fore and Aft would like some 
rifle practice at the enemy — all seven hundred 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 6l 


rifles blazing together. That wish showed the 
mood of the men. 

The Gurkhas walked into their camp, and in 
broken, barrack-room English strove to fraternize 
with them ; offered them pipes of tobacco-, and 
stood them treat at the canteen. But the 
Fore and Aft, not knowing much of the 
nature of the Gurkhas, treated them as 
they would treat any other “niggers,” and 
the little men in green trotted back to 
their firm friends, the Highlanders, and with 
many grins confided to them : “That white regi- 
ment no use. Sulky — ugh ! Dirty — ugh ! Hya, 
any tot for Johnny?” Whereat the Highlanders 
smote the Gurkhas as to the head, and told them 
not to vilify a British regiment, and the Gurkhas 
grinned caverno-usly, for the Highlanders were 
their elder brothers and entitled to the privileges 
of kinship. The common soldier who touches a 
Gurkha is more than likely to have his head sliced 
open. 

Three days later, the brigadier arranged a battle 
according to the rules of war and the peculiarity of 
the Afghan temperament. The enemy were mass- 
ing in inconvenient strength among the hills, and 
5 


62 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


the moving of many green standards warned them 
that the tribes were “up” in aid of the Afghan reg- 
ular troops. A squadron and a half of Bengal 
lancers represented the available cavalry, and two 
screw-guns, borrowed from a column thirty miles 
away, the artillery at the general’s disposal. 

“If they stand, as I’ve a very strong notion that 
they will, I fancy we shall see an infantry fight 
that will be worth watching,” said the brigadier. 
“We’ll do' it in style. Each regiment shall be 
played into action by its band, and we’ll hold the 
cavalry in reserve.” 

“For all the reserve?” somebody asked. 

“For all the reserve; because we’re going to 
crumple them up,” said the brigadier, who was an 
extraordinary brigadier, and did not believe in the 
value of a reserve when dealing with Asiatics. 
And, indeed, when you come to think of it, had the 
British army consistently waited for reserves in all 
its little affairs, the boundaries of our empire 
would have stopped at Brighton beach. 

That battle was to be a glorious battle. 

The three regiments debouching from three 
separate gorges, after duly crowning the heights 
above, were to converge from the center, left, and 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 63 

right upon what we will call the Afghan army, 
then stationed toward the lower extremity of a 
flat-bottomed valley. Thus it will be seen that 
three sides of the valley practically belonged to 
the English, while the fourth was strictly Afghan 
property. In the event of defeat, the Afghans had 
the rocky hills to fly to, where the fire from the 
guerrilla tribes in aid would cover their retreat. 
In the event of victory, these same tribes would 
rush down and lend their weight to the rout of the 
British. 

The screw-guns were to shell the head of each 
Afghan rush that was made in close formation, 
and the cavalry, held in reserve in the right val- 
ley, were to gently stimulate the break-up which 
would follow on the combined attack. The briga- 
dier, sitting upon a rock overlooking the valley, 
would watch the battle unrolled at his feet. The 
Fore and Aft would debouch from the central 
gorge, the Gurkhas from the left, and the High- 
landers from the right, for the reason that the left 
flank of the enemy seemed as though it required 
the most hammering. It was not every day that 
an Afghan force would take ground in the open, 


6 4 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


and the brigadier was resolved to make the most 
of it. 

“If we only had a few more men,” he said 
plaintively, “we could surround the creatures and 
crumble ’em up thoroughly. As it is, I’m afraid 
we can only cut them up as they run. It’s a great 
pity.” 

The Fore and Aft had enjoyed unbroken peace 
for five days, and were beginning, in spite of dys- 
entery, to recover their nerve. But they were not 
happy, for they did not know the work in hand, 
and had they known, would not have known how 
to do it. Throughout those five days in which old 
soldiers might have taught them the craft of the 
game, they discussed together their misadven- 
tures in the past — how such an one was alive at 
dawn and dead ere the dusk, and with what 
shrieks and struggles such another had given up 
his soul under the Afghan knife. Death was a 
new and horrible thing to the sons of mechanics 
who were used to die decently of zymotic disease ; 
and their careful conservation in barracks had 
done nothing to make them look upon it with less 
dread. 

Very early in the dawn the bugles began to blow, 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 65 

and the Fore and Aft, filled with a misguided en- 
thusiasm, turned out without waiting for a cup of 
coffee and a biscuit ; and were rewarded by being 
kept under arms in the cold while the other regi- 
ments leisurely prepared for the fray. All the 
world knows that it is ill taking the breeks off a 
Highlander. It is much iller to try to make him 
stir unless he is convinced of the necessity for 
haste. 

The Fore and Aft waited, leaning upon their 
rifles and listening to the protests of their empty 
stomachs. The colonel did his best to remedy the 
default of lining as soon as it was borne in upon 
him that the affair would not begin at once, and so 
well did he succeed that the coffee was just ready 
when — the men moved off, their band leading. 
Even then there had been a mistake in time, and 
the Fore and Aft came out into the valley ten min- 
utes before the proper hour. Their band wheeled 
to the right after reaching the open, and retired 
behind a little rocky knoll, still playing while the 
regiment went past. 

It was not a pleasant sight that opened on the 
unobstructed view, for the lower end of the val- 
ley appeared to be filled by an army in position — 


66 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


real and actual regiments attired in red coats, and 
— of this there was no doubt — firing Martini- 
Henri bullets which cut up the ground a hundred 
yards in front of the leading company. Over that 
pock-marked ground the regiment had to pass, 
and it opened the ball with a general and profound 
courtesy to the piping pickets ; ducking in perfect 
time, as though it had been brazed on a rod. Being 
half capable of thinking for itself, it fired a volley 
by the simple process of pitching its rifle into its 
shoulders and pulling the trigger. The bullets 
may have accounted for some of the watchers on 
the hill-side, but they certainly did not affect the 
mass of enemy in front, while the noise of the 
rifles drowned any orders that might have been 
given. 

“Good God !” said the brigadier, sitting on the 
rock high above all. “That regiment has spoiled 
the whole show. Hurry up the others, and let the 
screw-guns get off.” 

But the screw-guns, in working round the 
heights, had stumbled upon a wasp’s nest of a 
small mud fort which they incontinently shelled at 
eight hundred yards, to the huge discomfort of the 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 6 J 

occupants, who were unaccustomed to weapons of 
such devilish precision. 

The Fore and Aft continued to go forward, but 
with shortened stride. Where were the other reg- 
iments, and why did these niggers use Martinis? 
They took open order instinctively, lying down 
and firing at random, rushing a few paces forward 
and lying down again, according to the regula- 
tions. Once in this formation, each man felt him- 
self desperately alone, and edged in toward his 
fellow for comfort’s sake. 

Then the crack of his neighbor’s rifle at his ear 
led him to fire as rapidly as he could — again for 
the sake of the comfort of the noise. The reward 
was not long delayed. Five volleys plunged the 
files in banked smoke impenetrable to the eye, and 
the bullets began to take ground twenty or thirty 
yards in front of the firers, as the weight of the 
bayonet dragged down, and the right arms wear- 
ied with holding the kick of the leaping Mar- 
tini. The company commanders peered helplessly 
through the smoke, the more nervous mechan- 
ically trying to fan it away with their helmets. 

“High and to the left !” bawled a captain till he 


68 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


was hoarse. “No good ! Cease firing, and let it 
drift away a bit.” 

Three or four times the bugles shrieked the or- 
der, and when it was obeyed the Fore and Aft 
looked that their foe should be lying before them 
in mown swaths of men. A light wind drove the 
smoke to leeward, and showed the enemy still in 
position and apparently unaffected. A quarter of 
a ton of lead had been buried a furlong in front of 
them, as the ragged earth attested. 

That was not demoralizing. They were wait- 
ing for the mad riot to die down, and were firing 
quietly into the heart of the smoke. A private of 
the Fore and Aft spun up his company shrieking 
with agony, another was kicking the earth and 
gasping, and a third, ripped through the lower in- 
testines by a jagged bullet, was calling aloud on 
his comrades to put him out of his pain. These 
were the casualties, and they were not soothing to 
hear or see. The smoke cleared to a dull haze. 

Then the foe began to shout with a great shout- 
ing and a mass — a black mass — detached itself 
from the main body, and rolled over the ground 
at horrid speed. It was composed of, perhaps, 
three hundred men, who would shout and fire and 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 69 

slash if the rush of their fifty comrades, who were 
determined to die, carried home. The fifty were 
Ghazis, half-maddened with drugs and wholly 
mad with religious fanaticism. When they 
rushed, the British fire ceased, and in the lull the 
order was given to close ranks and meet them with 
the bayonet. 

Any one who knew the business could have told 
the Fore and Aft that the only way of dealing with 
a Ghazi rush is by volleys at long ranges ; because 
a man who means to die, who desires to die, who 
will gain heaven by dying, must, in nine cases out 
of ten, kill a man who has a lingering prejudice 
in favor of life if he can close with the latter. 
Where they should have closed and gone for- 
ward, the Fore and Aft opened out and skir- 
mished, and where they should have opened out 
and fired, they closed and waited. 

A man dragged from his blankets half awake 
and unfed is never in a pleasant frame of mind. 
Nor does his happiness increase when he watches 
the whites of the eyes of three hundred six-foot 
fiends upon whose beards the foam is lying, upon 
whose tongues is a roar of wrath, and in whose 
hands are three-foot knives. 


70 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


The Fore and Aft heard the Gurkha bugles 
bringing that regiment forward at the double, 
while the neighing of the Highland pipes came 
from the left. They strove to stay where they 
were, though the bayonets wavered down the line 
like the oars of a ragged boat. Then they felt 
body to body the amazing physical strength of 
their foes ; a shriek of pain ended the rush, and the 
knives fell amid scenes not to be told. The men 
clubbed together and smote blindly — as often as 
not at their own fellows. Their front crumpled 
like paper, and the fifty Ghazis passed on; their 
backers, now drunk with success, fighting as 
madly as they. 

Then the rear ranks were bidden to close up, 
and the subalterns dashed into the stew — alone. 
For the rear rank had heard the clamor in front, 
the yells and the howls of pain, and had seen the 
dark stale blood that makes afraid. They were 
not going to stay. It was the rushing of the 
camps over again. Let their officers go, if they 
chose ; they would get away from the knives. 

“Come on!” shrieked the subalterns, and their 
men, cursing them, drew back, each closing into 
his neighbor and wheeling round. 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 71 

Charteris and Devlin, subalterns of the last 
company, faced their death alone in the belief that 
their men would follow. 

“You’ve killed me, you cowards,” sobbed Dev- 
lin, and dropped, cut from the shoulder-strap to 
the center of the chest, and a fresh detachment of 
his men retreating, always retreating, trampled 
him under foot as they made for the pass whence 
they had emerged. 

I kissed her in the kitchen and I kissed her in the hall. 

Child’un, child’un, follow me! 

Oh, Golly, said the cook, is he gwine to kiss us all? 

Halla — Halla — Halla Hallelujah! 

The Gurkhas were pouring through the left 
gorge and over the heights at the double to the in- 
vitation of their regimental quickstep. The black 
rocks were crowned with dark-green spiders as the 
bugles gave tongue jubilantly : 

In the morning! In the morning by the bright light! 
When Gabriel blows his trumpet in the morning! 

The Gurkha rear companies tripped and blun- 
dered over loose stones. The front files halted for 
a moment to take stock of the valley and to settle 
stray boot-laces. Then a happy little sigh of con- 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


72 

tentment soughed down the ranks, and it was as 
though the land smiled, for behold there below 
was the enemy, and it was to meet them that the 
Gurkhas had doubled so hastily. There was much 
enemy. There would be amusement. The little 
men hitched their kukris well to hand, and gaped 
expectantly at their officers as terriers grin ere the 
stone is cast for them to fetch. The Gurkhas’ 
ground sloped downward to the valley, and they 
enjoyed a fair view of the proceedings. They 
sat upon the bowlders to watch, for their officers 
were not going to waste their wind in assisting 
to repulse a Ghazi rush more than half a mile 
away. Let the white men look to their own front. 

“Hi ! yi !” said the Subadar major, who was 
sweating profusely; — “the fools yonder, stand 
close-order! This is no time for close-order, it’s 
the time for volleys. Ugh !” Horrified, amused, 
and indignant, the Gurkhas beheld the retirement 
— let us be gentle — of the Fore and Aft with a 
running chorus of oaths and commentaries. 

“They run ! The white men run ! Colonel Sa- 
hib, may we also do a little running?” murmured 
Runbir Thappa, the senior Jemadar. 

But the colonel would have none of it. “Let 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 73 

the beggars be cut up a little,” said he, wrathfully. 
“Serves ’em right. They’ll be prodded into facing 
round in a minute.” He looked through his field- 
glasses, and caught the glint of an officer’s sword. 

“Beating ’em with the flat ! — How the Ghazis 
are walking into them !” said he. 

The Fore and Aft, heading back, bore with 
them their officers. The narrowness of the pass 
forced the mob into solid formation, and the rear 
rank delivered some sort of a wavering volley. 
The Ghazis drew off, for they did not know what 
reserves the gorge might hide. Moreover, it was 
never wise to chase white men too far. They 
returned as wolves return to cover, satisfied with 
the slaughter that they had done, and only stop- 
ping to slash at the wounded on the ground. A 
quarter of a mile had the Fore and Aft retreated, 
and now, jammed in the pass, was quivering with 
pain, shaken and demoralized with fear, while the 
officers, maddened beyond control, smote the men 
with the hilts and the flats of their swords. 

“Get back ! Get back, you cowards — you wom- 
en! Right about face — column of companies, 
form — you hounds !” shouted the colonel, and the 
subalterns swore aloud. But the regiment wanted 


74 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


to go — to go anywhere out of the range of those 
merciless knives. It swayed to and fro irresolute- 
ly with shouts and outcries, while from the right 
the Gurkhas dropped volley after volley of crip- 
ple-stopper Snider bullets at long range into the 
mob of the Ghazis returning to their own troops. 

The Fore and Aft band, though protected from 
direct fire by the rocky knoll under which it had 
sat down, fled at the first rush. Jakin and Lew 
would have fled also, but their short legs left them 
fifty yards in the rear, and by the time the band 
had mixed with the regiment they were painfully 
aware that they would have to close in alone and 
unsupported. 

“Get back to that rock,” gasped Jakin. “They 
won’t see us there.” 

And they returned to the scattered instruments 
of the band ; their hearts nearly bursting their ribs. 

“Here’s a nice show for us,” said Jakin, throw- 
ing himself full length on the ground. “A bloom- 
in’ fine show for British infantry ! Oh, the devils ! 
They’ve gone an’ left us alone here! Wot’ll we 
do?” 

Lew took possession of a cast-off water-bottle, 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 75 

which naturally was full of canteen rum, and 
drank till he coughed again. 

“Drink,” said he shortly. “They’ll come back 
in a minute or two — you see.” 

Jakin drank, but there was no sign of the regi- 
ment’s return. They could hear a dull clamor 
from the head of the valley of retreat, and saw 
the Ghazis slink back, quickening their pace as the 
Gurkhas fired at them. 

“We’re all that’s left of the band, an’ we’ll be 
cut up as sure as death,” said Jakin. 

“I’ll die game, then,” said Lew thickly, fum- 
bling with his tiny drummer’s sword. The drink 
was working on his brain as it was on Jakin’s. 

“ ’Old on ! I know something better than 
flghtin’,” said Jakin, stung by the splendor of a 
sudden thought, due chiefly to rum. “Tip our 
bloomin’ cowards yonder the word to come back. 
The Paythan beggars are well away. Come on, 
Lew ! We won’t get hurt. Take the fife an’ give 
me the drum. The Old Step for all you’re bloom- 
in’ worth! There’s a few of our men coming 
back now. Stand up, ye drunken little defaulter. 
By your right — quick march !” 

He slipped the drum-sling over his shoulder, 


76 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


thrust the fife into Lew’s hand, and the two boys 
marched out of the cover of the rock into the open, 
making a hideous hash of the first bars of the 
“British Grenadiers.” 

As Lew had said, a few of the Fore and Aft 
were coming back sullenly and shamefacedly 
under the stimulus of blows and abuse; their red 
coats shone at the head of the valley, and behind 
them were wavering bayonets. But between this 
shattered line and the enemy, who- with Afghan 
suspicion feared that the hasty retreat meant an 
ambush, and had not moved therefore, lay half a 
mile of level ground dotted only by the wounded. 

The tune settled into full swing, and the boys 
kept shoulder to shoulder, Jakin banging the drum 
as one possessed. The one fife made a thin and 
pitiful squeaking, but the tune carried far, even 
to the Gurkhas. 

“Come on, you dogs!” muttered Jakin to him- 
self. “Are we to play forever?” Lew was star- 
ing straight in front of him and marching more 
stiffly than ever he had done on parade. 

And in bitter mockery of the distant mob, the 
old tune of the Old Line shrilled and rattled : 



Page 76 


The two hoys marched out into the open 





THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 77 

Some talk of Alexander, 

And some of Hercules; 

Of Hector and Lysander, 

And such great names as these. 

There was a far-off clapping of hands from the 
Gurkhas, and a roar from the Highlanders in the 
distance, but never a shot was fired by British or 
Afghan. The two little red dots moved forward 
in the open parallel to' the enemy’s front. 

But of all the world’s great heroes 
There’s none that can compare, 

With a tow-row-row-row-row-row. 

To the British Grenadier! 

The men of the Fore and Aft were gathering 
thick at the entrance into the plain. The briga- 
dier on the heights far above was speechless with 
rage. Still no movement from the enemy. The 
day stayed to watch the children. 

Jakin halted and beat the long roll of the as- 
sembly, while the fife squealed despairingly. 

“Right about face! Hold up, Lew, you’re 
drunk,” said Jakin. They wheeled and marched 
back : 

Those heroes of antiquity 
Ne’er saw a cannon-ball, 

Nor knew the force o’ powder, 


6 


78 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


“Here they come !” said Jakin. “Go on, Lew 
To scare their foes withal! 

The Fore and Aft were pouring out of the val- 
ley. What officers had said to men in that time 
of shame and humiliation will never be known, for 
neither officers nor men speak of it now. 

“They are coming anew!” shouted a priest 
among the Afghans. “Do not kill the boys ! Take 
them alive, and they shall be of our faith.” 

But the first volley had been fired, and Lew 
dropped on his face. Jakin stood for a minute, 
spun round, and collapsed as the Fore and Aft 
came forward, the maledictions of their officers 
in their ears, and in their hearts the shame of 
open shame. 

Half the men had seen the drummers die, and 
they made no sign. They did not even shout. 
They doubled out straight across the plain in open 
order, and they did not fire. 

“This,” said the Colonel of Gurkhas, softly, “is 
the real attack, as it ought to have been delivered. 
Come on, my children.” 

“Ulu-lu-lu-lu !” squealed the Gurkhas, and came 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 79 

down with a joyful clicking of kukris — those vi- 
cious Gurkha knives. 

On the right there was no rush. The High- 
landers, cannily commending their souls to God 
(for it matters as much to a dead man whether 
he has been shot in a border scuffle or at Water- 
loo), opened out and fired according to their 
custom; that is to say, without heat and without 
intervals, while the screw-guns, having disposed 
of the impertinent mud fort afore-mentioned, 
dropped shell after shell into the clusters round the 
flickering green standards on the heights. 

“Charging is an unfortunate necessity,” mur- 
mured the color-sergeant of the right company of 
the Highlanders. 

“It makes the men sweer so, but I am thinkin’ 
that it will come to a charge if these black devils 
stand much longer. Stewarrt, man, you’re firing 
into the eye of the sun, and he’ll not take any 
harm for government ammuneetion. A foot 
lower and a good deal slower! What are the 
English doing? They’re very quiet there in the 
center. Running again?” 

The English were not running. They were 
hacking and hewing and stabbing, for, though one 


8o 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


white man is seldom physically a match for an 
Afghan in a sheep-skin or wadded coat, yet, 
through the pressure of many white men behind, 
and a certain thirst for revenge in his heart, he 
becomes capable of doing much with both ends of 
his rifle. The Fore and Aft held their fire till 
one bullet could drive through five or six men, 
and the front of the Afghan force gave on the 
volley. They then selected their men, and slew 
them with deep gasps and short hacking coughs, 
and groanings of leather belts against strained 
bodies, and realized for the first time that an 
Afghan attacked is far less formidable than an 
Afghan attacking; which fact old soldiers might 
have told them. 

But they had no old soldiers in their ranks. 

The Gurkhas’ stall at the bazaar was the noisi- 
est, for the men were engaged — to a nasty noise 
as of beef being cut on the block — with the kukri, 
which they preferred to the bayonet; well know- 
ing how the Afghan hates the half-moon blade. 

As the Afghans wavered, the green standards 
on the mountain moved down to assist them in a 
last rally ; which was unwise. The lancers chafing 
in the right gorge had thrice dispatched their only 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 8l 


subaltern as galloper to report on the progress of 
affairs. On the third occasion he returned, with a 
bullet-graze on his knee, swearing strange oaths 
in Hindoostanee, and saying that all things were 
ready. So that squadron swung round the right 
of the Highlanders with a wicked whistling of 
wind in the pennons of its lances, and fell upon the 
remnant just when, according to all the rules of 
war, it should have waited for the foe to show 
more signs of wavering. 

But it was a dainty charge, deftly delivered, 
and it ended by the cavalry finding itself at the 
head of the pass by which the Afghans intended to 
retreat; and down the track that the lances had 
made streamed two companies of the Highlanders, 
which was never intended by the brigadier. The 
new development was successful. It detached the 
enemy from his base as a sponge is torn from a 
rock, and left him ringed about with fire in that 
pitiless plain. And as a sponge is chased round 
the bath-tub by the hand of the bather, so were 
the Afghans chased till they broke into little de- 
tachments much more difficult to dispose of than 
large masses. 

“See!” quoth the brigadier. “Everything has 


82 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


come as I arranged. We’ve cut their base, and 
now we’ll bucket ’em to pieces.” 

A direct hammering was all that the brigadier 
had dared to hope for, considering the size of the 
force at his disposal; but men who stand or fall 
by the errors of their opponents may be forgiven 
for turning Chance into Design. The bucketing 
went forward merrily. The Afghan forces were 
upon the run — the run of wearied wolves who 
snarl and bite over their shoulders. The red lances 
dipped by twos and threes, and, with a shriek, up 
rose the lance-butt, like a spar on a stormy sea, 
as the trooper cantering forward cleared his point. 
The lancers kept between their prey and the steep 
hills, for all who could were trying to escape from 
the valley of death. The Highlanders gave the 
fugitives two hundred yards’ law, and then 
brought them down, gasping and choking, ere 
they could reach the protection of the bowlders 
above. The Gurkhas followed suit ; but the Fore 
and Aft were killing on their own account, for 
they had penned a mass of men between their bay- 
onets and a wall of rock, and the flash of the rifles 
was lighting the wadded coats. 

“We can not hold them, Captain Sahib!” pant- 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 83 

ed a ressaidar of lancers. “Let us try the car- 
bine. The lance is good, but it wastes time.” 

They tried the carbine, and still the enemy 
melted away — fled up the hills by hundreds when 
there were only twenty bullets to stop them. On 
the heights the screw-guns ceased firing — they 
had run out of ammunition — and the brigadier 
groaned, for the musketry fire could not sufficient- 
ly smash the retreat. Long before the last vol- 
leys were fired the litters were out in force looking 
for the wounded. The battle was over, and, but 
for want of fresh troops, the Afghans would have 
been wiped off the earth. As it was they counted 
their dead by hundreds, and nowhere were the 
dead thicker than in the track of the Fore and Aft. 

But the regiment did not cheer with the High- 
landers, nor did they dance uncouth dances with 
the Gurkhas among the dead. They looked under 
their brows at the colonel as they leaned upon 
their rifles and panted. 

“Get back to camp, you ! Haven’t you disgraced 
yourself enough for one day ? Go and look to the 
wounded. It’s all you’re fit for,” said the colonel. 
Yet for the past hour the Fore and Aft had been 
doing all that mortal commander could expect. 


84 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


They had lost heavily because they did not know 
how to set about their business with proper skill, 
but they had borne themselves gallantly, and this 
was their reward. 

A young and sprightly color-sergeant, who had 
begun to imagine himself a hero, offered his 
water-bottle to a Highlander, whose tongue was 
black with thirst. “I drink with no cowards,” 
answered the youngster, huskily, and, turning to 
a Gurkha, said, “Hya, Johnny ! Drink water got 
it?” The Gurkha grinned and passed his bottle. 
The Fore and Aft said no word. 

They went back to camp when the field of strife 
had been a little mopped up and made presentable, 
and the brigadier, who saw himself a knight in 
three months, was the only soul who was compli- 
mentary to them. The colonel was heart-broken 
and the officers were savage and sullen. 

“Well,” said the brigadier, “they are young 
troops, of course, and it was not unnatural that 
they should retire in disorder for a bit.” 

“Oh, my only Aunt Maria!” murmured a 
junior staff officer. “Retire in disorder! It was 
a bully run !” 

“But they came again as we all know,” cooed 


THE DRUMS OF THE FORE AND AFT. 85 

the brigadier, the coloners ashy-white face before 
him, “and they behaved as well as could possibly 
be expected. Behaved beautifully, indeed. I was 
watching them. It’s not a matter to take to heart, 
colonel. As some German general said of his 
men, they wanted to be shooted over a little, that 
was all.” To himself he said : — “Now they’re 
blooded I can give ’em responsible work. It’s as 
well that they got what they did. Teach ’em 
more than half a dozen rifle flirtations, that will — 
later — run alone and bite. Poor old colonel, 
though.” 

All that afternoon the heliograph winked and 
flickered on the hills, striving to tell the good 
news to a mountain forty miles away. And in the 
evening there arrived — dusty, sweating, and sore 
— a misguided correspondent who had gone out 
to assist at a trumpery village-burning and who 
had read off the message from afar, cursing his 
luck the while. 

“Let’s have the details somehow — as full as 
ever you can, please. It’s the first time I’ve ever 
been left this campaign,” said the correspondent 
to the brigadier; and the brigadier, nothing loath, 
told him how an army of communication had been 


86 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


crumpled up, destroyed, and all but annihilated 
by the craft, strategy, wisdom, and foresight of 
the brigadier. 

But some say, and among these be the Gurkhas 
who watched on the hill-side, that that battle was 
won by Jakin and Lew, whose little bodies were 
borne up just in time to fit two gaps at the head 
of the big ditch-grave for the dead under the 
heights of Jagai. 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


“An officer and a gentleman.” 

His full name was Percival William Williams, 
but he picked up the other name in a nursery- 
book, and that was the end of the christened titles. 
His mother’s ayah called him Willi t-Baba, but as 
he never paid the faintest attention to anything 
that the ayah said, her wisdom did not help mat- 
ters. 

His father was the colonel of the 195th, and as 
soon as Wee Willie Winkie was old enough to 
understand what military discipline meant, Colo- 
nel Williams put him under it. There was no 
other way of managing the child. When he was 
good for a week, he drew good-conduct pay; and 
when he was bad, he was deprived of his good- 
conduct stripe. Generally he was bad, for India 
offers so many chances to little six-year-olds of 
going wrong. 

Children resent familiarity from strangers, and 
Wee Willie Winkie was a very particular child. 
Once he accepted an acquaintance he was gra- 
ciously pleased to thaw. He accepted Brandis, a 
87 


88 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


subaltern of the 195th, on sight. Brandis was 
having tea at the Coloners, and Wee Willie 
Winkie entered, strong in the possession of a 
good-conduct badge won for not chasing the hens 
round the compound. He regarded Brandis with 
gravity for at least ten minutes, and then delivered 
himself of his opinion. 

“I like you,” said he, slowly, getting off his 
chair and coming over to Brandis. “I like you. 
I shall call you Coppy, because of your hair. Do 
you mind being called Coppy ? It is because of ve 
hair, you know.” 

Here was one of the most embarrassing of Wee 
Willie Winkie’s peculiarities. He would look at 
a stranger for some time, and then, without warn- 
ing or explanation, would give him a name. And 
the name stuck. No regimental penalties could 
break Wee Willie Winkie of this habit. He lost 
his good-conduct badge for christening the com- 
missioner’s wife “Pobs;” but nothing that the 
Colonel could do made the station forego the nick- 
name, and Mrs. Collen remained Mrs. “Pobs” till 
the end of her stay. So Brandis was christened 
“Coppy,” and rose, therefore, in the estimation 
of the regiment. 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


89 


If Wee Willie Winkie took an interest in any 
one, the fortunate man was envied alike by the 
mess and the rank and file. And in their envy 
lay no suspicion of self-interest. “The Colonel’s 
son” was idolized on his own merits entirely. Yet 
Wee Willie Winkie was not lovely. His face 
was permanently freckled, as his legs were per- 
manently scratched, and, in spite of his mother’s 
almost tearful remonstrances, he had insisted upon 
having his long, yellow locks cut short in the mili- 
tary fashion. “I want my hair like Sergeant 
Tummil’s,” said Wee Willie Winkie; and, his 
father abetting, the sacrifice was accomplished. 

Three weeks after the bestowal of his youthful 
affections on Lieutenant Brandis — henceforward 
to be called “Coppy” for the sake of brevity — Wee 
Willie Winkie was destined to behold strange 
things and far beyond his comprehension. 

Coppy returned his liking with interest. Coppy 
had let him wear for five rapturous minutes his 
own big sword — just as tall as Wee Willie 
Winkie. Coppy had promised him a terrier 
puppy ; and Coppy had permitted him to witness 
the miraculous operation of shaving. Nay, more 
— Coppy had said that even he, Wee Willie 


9 o 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Winkie, would rise in time to the ownership of a 
box of shiny knives, a silver soap-box, and a 
silver-handled “sputter-brush,” as Wee Willie 
Winkie called it. Decidedly, there was no one, 
except his father — who could give or take away 
good-conduct badges at pleasure — half so wise, 
strong, and valiant as Coppy with the Afghan and 
Egyptian medals on his breast. Why, then, 
should Coppy be guilty of the unmanly weakness 
of kissing — vehemently kissing — a “big girl,” 
Miss Allardyce to wit ? In the course of a morn- 
ing ride, Wee Willie Winkie had seen Coppy 
so doing, and, like the gentleman he was, had 
promptly wheeled round and cantered back to his 
groom, lest the groom should also see. 

Under ordinary circumstances he would have 
spoken to his father, but he felt instinctively that 
this was a matter on which Coppy ought first to 
be consulted. 

“Coppy,” shouted Wee Willie Winkie, reining 
up outside that subaltern’s bungalow early one 
morning — “I want to see you, Coppy !” 

“Come in, young ’un,” returned Coppy, who 
was at early breakfast in the midst of his dogs. 
“What mischief have you been getting into now ?” 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


9 


Wee Willie Winkie had done nothing notori- 
ously bad for three days, and so stood on a pin- 
nacle of virtue. 

‘Tve been doing nothing bad/’ said he, curling 
himself into a long chair with a studious affecta- 
tion of the Colonel’s languor after a hot parade. 
He buried his freckled nose in a tea-cup, and, 
with eyes staring roundly over the rim, asked : “I 
say, Coppy, is it pwoper to kiss big girls?” 

“By Jove! You’re beginning early. Who do 
you want to kiss?” 

“No one. My muvver’s always kissing me if 
I don’t stop her. If it isn’t pwoper, how was you 
kissing Major Allardyce’s big girl last morning, 
by ve canal ?” 

Coppy’s brow wrinkled. He and Miss Allar- 
dyce had, with great craft, managed to keep their 
engagement secret for a fortnight. There were 
urgent and imperative reasons why Major Allar- 
dyce should not know how matters stood for at 
least another month, and this small marplot had 
discovered a great deal too much. 

“I saw you,” said Wee Willie Winkie, calmly. 
“But ve groom didn’t see. I said, ‘ Hut jao.’ ” 

“Oh, you had that much sense, you young rip,” 


92 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


groaned poor Coppy, half-amused and half- 
angry. “And how many people may you have 
told about it?” 

“Only me myself. You didn’t tell when I twied 
to wide ve buffalo ven my pony was lame ; and I 
fought you wouldn’t like.” 

“Winkie,” said Coppy, enthusiastically, shak- 
ing the small hand,’ “you’re the best of good fel- 
lows. Look here, you can’t understand all these 
things. One of these days — hang it, how can I 
make you see it ! — I’m going to marry Miss Allar- 
dyce, and then she’ll be Mrs. Coppy, as you say. 
If your young mind is so scandalized at the idea 
of kissing big girls, go and tell your father.” 

“What will happen?” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
who firmly believed that his father was omnip- 
otent. 

“I shall get into' trouble,” said Coppy, playing 
his trump card with an appealing look at the 
holder of the ace. 

“Ven I won’t,” said Wee Willie Winkie, briefly. 
“But my faver says it’s un-man-ly to' be always 
kissing, and I didn’t fink you'd do vat, Coppy.” 

“I’m not always kissing, old chap. It’s only 
now and then, and when you’re bigger you’ll do 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


93 


it, too. Your father meant it’s not good for little 
boys.” 

“Ah!” said Wee Willie Winkie, now fully en- 
lightened. “It’s like ve sputter-brush?” 

“Exactly,” said Coppy, gravely. 

“But I don’t fink I’ll ever want to kiss big girls, 
nor no one, ’cept my muvver. And I must vat, 
you know.” 

There was a long pause, broken by Wee Willie 
Winkie. 

“Are you fond of vis big girl, Coppy?” 

“Awfully!” said Coppy. 

“Fonder van you are of Bell or ve Butcha — 
or me?” 

“It’s in a different way,” said Coppy. “You 
see, one of these days Miss Allardyce will belong 
to me, but you’ll grow up and command the regi- 
ment and — all sorts of things. It’s quite different, 
you see.” 

“Very well,” said Wee Willie Winkie, rising. 
“If you’re fond of ve big girl, I won’t tell any 
one. I must go now.” 

Coppy rose and escorted his small guest to the 
door, adding: “You’re the best of little fellows, 

Winkie. I tell you what. In thirty days from 

7 


94 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


now you can tell if you like — tell any one you 
like.” 

Thus the secret of the Brandis-Allardyce en- 
gagement was dependent on a little child’s word. 
Coppy, who knew Wee Willie Winkie’s idea of 
truth, was at ease, for he felt that he would not 
break promises. Wee Willie Winkie betrayed a 
special and unusual interest in Miss Allardyce, 
and, slowly revolving round that embarrassed 
young lady, was used to regard her gravely with 
unwinking eye. He was trying to discover why 
Coppy should have kissed her. She was not half 
so nice as his own mother. On the other hand, 
she was Coppy’s property, and would in time be- 
long to him. Therefore it behooved him to treat 
her with as much respect as Coppy’s big sword or 
shiny pistol. 

The idea that he shared a great secret in com- 
mon with Coppy kept Wee Willie Winkie un- 
usually virtuous for three weeks. Then the Old 
Adam broke out, and he made what he called a 
“camp-fire” at the bottom of the garden. How 
could he have foreseen that the flying sparks 
would have lighted the Colonel’s little hayrick and 
consumed a week’s store for the horses ? Sudden 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


95 


and swift was the punishment — deprivation of the 
good-conduct badge, and, most sorrowful of all, 
two days’ confinement to barracks — the house and 
veranda — coupled with the withdrawal of the 
light of his father’s countenance. 

He took the sentence like the man he strove to 
be, drew himself up with a quivering under-lip, 
saluted, and, once clear of the room, ran to weep 
bitterly in his nursery — called by him “my quar- 
ters.” Coppy came in the afternoon and attempt- 
ed to console the culprit. 

“I’m under awwest,” said Wee Willie Winkie, 
mournfully, “and I didn’t ought to speak to you.” 

Very early the next morning he climbed on to 
the roof of the house — that was not forbidden — 
and beheld Miss Allardyce going for a ride. 

“Where are you going?” cried Wee Willie 
Winkie. 

“Across the river,” she answered, and trotted 
forward. 

Now, the cantonment in which the 195th lay 
was bounded on the north by a river — dry in the 
winter. From his earliest years Wee Willie 
Winkie had been forbidden to go across the river, 
and had noted that even Coppy — the almost al- 


9 6 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


mighty Coppy — had never set foot beyond it. Wee 
Willie Winkie had once been read to — out of a 
big, blue book — the history of the princess and 
the goblins; a most wonderful tale of a land 
where the goblins were always warring with the 
children of men until they were defeated by one 
Curdie. Ever since that date, it seemed to him 
that the bare black-and-purple hills across the 
river were inhabited by goblins, and, in truth, 
every one had said that there lived the bad men. 
Even in his own house the lower halves of the 
windows were covered with green paper on ac- 
count of the bad men who might, if allowed clear 
view, fire into peaceful drawing-rooms and com- 
fortable bedrooms. Certainly, beyond the river, 
which was the end of all the earth, lived the bad 
men. And here was Major Allardyce’s big girl, 
Coppy’s property, preparing to venture into their 
borders ! What would Coppy say if anything hap- 
pened to her? If the goblins ran off with her, as 
they did with Curdie’s princess? She must at 
all hazards be turned back. 

The house was still. Wee Willie Winkie re- 
flected for a moment on the very terrible wrath 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


97 


of his father ; and then — broke his arrest ! It was 
a crime unspeakable. The low sun threw his 
shadow, very large and very black, on the trim 
garden-paths, as he went down to the stables and 
ordered his pony. It seemed to him, in the hush 
of the dawn, that all the big world had been bid- 
den to stand still and look at Wee Willie Winkie 
guilty of mutiny. The drowsy groom handed 
him his mount, and, since the one great sin made 
all others insignificant, Wee Willie Winkie said 
that he was going to ride over to Coppy Sahib, 
and went out at a foot-pace, stepping on the soft 
mold of the flower-borders. 

The devastating track of the pony’s feet was the 
last misdeed that cut him off from all sympathy 
of humanity. He turned into the road, leaned 
forward, and rode as fast as the pony could put 
foot to the ground, in the direction of the river. 

But the liveliest of twelve-two ponies can do 
little against the long canter of a waler. Miss 
Allardyce was far ahead, had passed through the 
crops, beyond the police-post, when all the guards 
were asleep, and her mount was scattering the 
pebbles of the river-bed as Wee Willie Winkie 
left the cantonment and British India behind him. 


9 8 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Bowed forward and still flogging, Wee Willie 
Winkie shot into Afghan territory, and could just 
see Miss Allardyce, a black speck, flickering across 
the stony plain. The reason of her wandering 
was simple enough. Coppy, in a tone of too 
hastily assumed authority, had told her overnight 
that she must not ride out by the river. And she 
had gone to prove her own spirit and teach Coppy 
a lesson. 

Almost at the foot of the inhospitable hills, 
Wee Willie Winkie saw the waler blunder and 
come down heavily. Miss Allardyce struggled 
clear, but her ankle had been severely twisted, and 
she could not stand. Having thus demonstrated 
her spirit, she wept copiously, and was surprised 
by the apparition of a white, wide-eyed child in 
khaki, on a nearly spent pony. 

“Are you badly — badly hurted?” shouted Wee 
Willie Winkie, as soon as he was within range. 
“You didn’t ought to be here.” 

“I don’t know,” said Miss Allardyce, ruefully, 
ignoring the reproof. “Good gracious, child, 
what are you doing here?” 

“You said you was going acwoss ve wiver,” 
panted Wee Willie Winkie, throwing himself off 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


99 


his pony. “And nobody — not even Coppy — must 
go acwoss ve wiver, and I came after you ever so 
hard; but you wouldn’t stop, and now you’ve 
hurted yourself, and Coppy will be angwy wiv me, 
and — I’ve b woken my aw west ! I’ve bwoken my 
awwest !” 

The future colonel of the 195th sat down and 
sobbed. In spite of the pain in her ankle, the 
girl was moved. 

“Have you ridden all the way from canton- 
ments, little man? What for?” 

“You belonged to Coppy. Coppy told me so!” 
wailed Wee Willie Winkie, disconsolately. “I 
saw him kissing you, and he said he was fonder 
of you van Bell or ve Butcha or me. And so I 
came. You must get up and come back. You 
didn’t ought to be here. Vis is a bad place and 
I’ve bwoken my awwest.” 

“I can’t move, Winkie,” said Miss Allaidyce, 
with a groan. “I’ve hurt my foot. What shall I 
do?” 

She showed a readiness to weep afresh, which 
steadied Wee Willie Winkie, who had been 
brought up to believe that tears were the depth of 
unmanliness. Still, when one is as great a sinner 


IOO 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


as Wee Willie Winkie, even a man may be per- 
mitted to break down. 

“Winkie,” said Miss Allardyce, “when you’ve 
rested a little, ride back and tell them to send out 
something to carry me back in. It hurts fear- 
fully.” 

The child sat still for a little time, and Miss 
Allardyce closed her eyes; the pain was nearly 
making her faint. She was roused by Wee Willie 
Winkie tying up the reins on his pony’s neck, and 
setting it free with a vicious cut of his whip that 
made it whicker. The little animal headed to- 
ward the cantonments. 

“Oh, Winkie! What are you doing?” 

“Hush!” said Wee Willie Winkie. “Vere’s a 
man coming — one of ve bad men. I must stay 
wiv you. My father says a man must always 
look after a girl. Jack will go home, and ven 
vey’ll come and look for us. Vat’s why I let 
him go.” 

Not one man, but two or thrae, had appeared 
from behind the rocks of the hills, and the heart 
of Wee Willie Winkie sunk within him, for just 
in this manner were the goblins wont to steal out 
and vex Curdie’s soul. Thus had they played in 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE, 


IOI 


CurcHe’ s garden — he had seen the picture — and 
thus had they frightened the princess’ nurse. He 
heard them talking to each other, and recognized 
with joy the Pushto that he had picked up from 
one of his father’s grooms lately dismissed. Peo- 
ple who spoke that tongue could not be the bad 
men. They were only natives after all. 

They came up to the bowlders on which Miss 
Allardyce’s horse had blundered. 

Then rose from the rock Wee Willie Winkie, 
child of the dominant race, aged six and three- 
quarters, and said, briefly and emphatically, 
“Jao!” The pony had crossed the river-bed. 

The men laughed, and laughter from the na- 
tives was the one thing Wee Willie Winkie could 
not tolerate. He asked them what they wanted 
and why they did not depart. Other men, with 
most evil faces and crooked-stocked guns, crept 
out of the shadows of the hills, till soon Wee 
Willie Winkie was face to face with an audience 
some twenty strong. Miss Allardyce screamed. 

“Who are you?” said one of the men. 

“I am the Colonel Sahib’s son, and my order 
is that you go at once. You black men are fright- 
ening the Miss Sahib. One of you must run into 


102 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


cantonments and take the news that the Miss 
Sahib has hurt herself, and that the Colonel’s son 
is here with her.” 

“Put our feet into the trap?” was the laughing 
reply. “Hear this boy’s speech!” 

“Say that I sent you — I, the Colonel’s son. They 
will give you money.” 

“What is the use of this talk? Take up the 
child and the girl, and we can at least ask a ran- 
som. Ours are the villages on the heights,” said 
a voice in the background. 

These were the bad men — worse than the gob- 
lins — and it needed all Wee Willie Winkie’s train- 
ing to prevent him from bursting into tears. But 
he felt that to cry before a native, excepting only 
his mother’s ayah , would be an infamy greater 
than any mutiny. Moreover, he, as future colonel 
of the 195th, had that grim regiment at his back. 

“Are you going to carry us away?” said Wee 
Willie Winkie, very blanched and uncomfortable. 

“Yes, my little Sahib Bahadur said the tallest 
of the men, “and eat you afterward.” 

“That is child’s talk,” said Wee Willie Winkie. 
“Men do not eat men.” 

A yell of laughter interrupted him, but he went 



Page io x 

Other men with evil faces crept out of the shadows 

of the hills 













WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 


103 


on, firmly : “And if you do carry us away, I tell 
you that all my regiment will come up in a day 
and kill you all without leaving one. Who will 
take my message to the Colonel Sahib?” 

Speech in any vernacular — and Wee Willie 
Winkie had a colloquial acquaintance with three — 
was easy to the boy who could not yet manage his 
r’s and ttis aright. 

Another man joined the conference, crying: 
“Oh, foolish men ! What this babe says is true. 
He is the heart’s heart of those white troops. For 
the sake of peace, let them both go ; for, if he be 
taken, the regiment will break loose and gut the 
valley. Our villages are in the valley, and we 
shall not escape. That regiment are devils. They 
broke Khoda Yar’s breast-bone with kicks when 
he tried to take the rifles; and, if we touch this 
child, they will fire and rape and plunder for a 
month, till nothing remains. Better to send a man 
back to take the message and get a reward. I say 
that this child is their god, and that they will spare 
none of us, nor our women, if we harm him.” 

It was Din Mahommed, the dismissed groom 
of the Colonel, who made the diversion, and an 
angry and heated discussion followed. Wee 


104 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Willie Winkie, standing over Miss Allardyce, 
waited the upshot. Surely his “wegiment,” his 
own “wegiment,” would not desert him if they 
knew of his extremity. 

jj« jjc jjs sfc s(e j}: 

The riderless pony brought the news to the 
195th, though there had been consternation in the 
Colonel’s household for an hour before. The 
little beast came in through the parade-ground in 
front of the main barracks, where the men were 
settling down to play spoil-five till the afternoon. 
Devlin, the color-sergeant of E Company, glanced 
at the empty saddle and tumbled through the bar- 
rack-rooms, kicking up each room corporal as he 
passed. ' “Up, ye beggars! There’s something 
happened to the Colonel’s son,” he shouted. 

“He couldn’t fall off ! S’elp me, ’e couldn't fall 
off,” blubbered a drummer-boy. “Go an’ hunt 
acrost the river. He’s over there if he’s anywhere, 
an’ may be those Pathans have got ’im. For the 
love o’ Gawd, don’t look for ’im in the nullahs! 
Let’s go over the river.” 

“There’s sense in Mott yet,” said Devlin. “E 
Company, double out to the river — sharp!” 

So E Company, in its shirt-sleeves mainly, 


WEE WILLIE WINKIE. 105 

doubled for the dear life, and in the rear toiled the 
perspiring sergeant, adjuring it to double yet 
faster. The cantonment was alive with the men 
of the 195th hunting for Wee Willie Winkie, and 
the Colonel finally overtook E Company, far too 
exhausted to swear, struggling in the pebbles of 
the river-bed. 

Up the hill under which Wee Willie Winkie’s 
bad men were discussing the wisdom of carrying 
off the child and the girl, a lookout fired two shots. 

“What have I said?” shouted Din Mahommed. 
“There is the warning! The pulton are out al- 
ready and are coming across the plain ! Get away ! 
Let us not be seen with the boy !” 

The men waited for an instant, and then, as 
another shot was fired, withdrew into the hills 
silently as they had appeared. 

“The wegiment is coming,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, confidently, to Miss Allardyce, “and it’s 
all wight. Don’t cry !” 

He needed the advice himself, for, ten minutes 
later, when his father came up, he was weeping 
bitterly with his head in Miss Allardyce’s lap. 

And the men of the 195th carried him home 
with shouts and rejoicings ; and Coppy, who had 


io6 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


ridden a horse into a lather, met him, and, to his 
intense disgust, kissed him openly in the presence 
of the men. 

But there was balm for his dignity. His father 
assured him that not only would the breaking ot 
arrest be condoned, but that the good-conduct 
badge would be restored as soon as his mother 
could sew it on his blouse-sleeve. Miss Allardyce 
had told the Colonel a story that made him proud 
of his son. 

“She belonged to you, Coppy,” said Wee Willie 
Winkie, indicating Miss Allardyce with a grimy 
forefinger. “I knew she didn’t ought to go 
acwoss ve wiver, and I knew ve wegiment would 
come to me if I sent Jack home.” 

“You’re a hero, Winkie,” said Coppy — “a 
pukka hero!” 

“I don’t know what vat means,” said Wee 
Willie Winkie ; “but you mustn’t call me Winkie 
any no more. I’m Percival Will’am Will’ams.” 

And in this manner did Wee Willie Winkie 
enter into his manhood. 


CHRISTMAS IN INDIA, 


Dim dawn behind the tamarisks — the sky is saf- 
fron-yellow — 

As the women in the village grind the corn, 
And the parrots seek the river-side, each calling 
to his fellow 

That the Day, the staring Eastern Day is born. 

Oh the white dust on the highway ! Oh the 
stenches in the byway ! 

Oh the clammy fog that hovers over earth ! 

And at Home they’re making merry ’neath 
the white and scarlet berry — 

What part have India’s exiles in their 
mirth ? 

Full day behind the tamarisks — the sky is blue and 
staring — 

As the cattle crawl afield beneath the yoke, 
And they bear One o’er the field-path, who is past 
all hope or caring, 

To the ghat below the curling wreaths of smoke. 

Call on Rama, going slowly, as ye bear a 

brother lowly — 

107 


io8 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Call on Rama — he may hear, perhaps, your 
voice ! 

With our hymn-books and our psalters we 
appeal to other altars, 

And to-day we bid “good Christian men 
rejoice !” 

High noon behind the tamarisks — the sun is hot 
above us — 

As at Home the Christmas Day is breaking 
wan. 

They will drink our healths at dinner — those who 
tell us how they love us, 

And forget us till another year be gone! 

Oh the toil that needs no breaking ! Oh the 
Heimweh, ceaseless, aching! 

Oh the black dividing Sea and alien Plain ! 

Youth was cheap — wherefore we sold it. 
Gold was good — we hoped to hold it. 
And to-day we know the fullness of our 
gain. 

Gray dusk behind the tamarisks — the parrots fly 
together — 

As the sun is sinking slowly over Home ; 


CHRISTMAS IN INDIA. IO9 

And his last ray seems to mock us shackled in a 
lifelong tether 

That drags us back howe’er so far we roam. 

Hard her service, poor her payment — she in 
ancient, tattered raiment — 

India, she the grim Stepmother of our 
kind. 

If a year of life be lent her, if her temple’s 
shrine we enter, 

The door is shut — we may not look behind. 

Black night behind the tamarisks — the owls begin 
their chorus — 

As the conches from the temple scream and 
bray. 

With the fruitless years behind us, and the hope- 
less years before us, 

Let us honor, O my brothers, Christmas Day! 

Call a truce, then, to our labors — let us feast 
with friend and neighbors, 

And be merry as the custom of our caste ; 

For if “faint and forced the laughter,” and if 
sadness follow after, 

We are richer by one mocking Christmas 
past. 


8 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


Baa baa, black sheep, 

Have you any wool? 

Yes, sir; yes, sir; three bags full. 

One for the master, one for the dame — 

None for the little boy that cries down the lane. 

Nursery Rhyme. 


THE FIRST BAG. 

“When I was in my father’s house I was in a better 
place.” 

They were putting Punch to bed — the ayah 
and the hamal and Meeta, the big Surti boy with 
the red-and-gold turban. Judy, already tucked 
inside her mosquito-curtains, was nearly asleep. 
Punch had been allowed to stay up for dinner. 
Many privileges had been accorded to Punch 
within the last ten days, and a greater kindness 
from the people of his world had encompassed his 
ways and works, which were mostly obstreperous. 
He sat on the edge of his bed and swung his bare 
legs defiantly. 

“Punch-fraba going to bye-lo?” said the ayah, 
suggestively. 


no 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


Ill 


“No/’ said Punch. “Punch-baba wants the 
story about the Ranee that was turned into a tiger. 
Meeta must tell it, and the hamal shall hide behind 
the door and make tiger-noises at the proper 
time.” 

“But Judy -baba will wake up,” said the ayah. 

“Judy -baba is waking,” piped a small voice 
from the mosquito-curtains. “There was a Ranee 
that lived at Delhi. Go on, Meeta,” and she fell 
fast asleep again while Meeta began the story. 

Never had Punch secured the telling of that 
tale with so little opposition. He reflected for a 
long time. The hamal made the tiger-noises in 
twenty different keys. 

“’Top!” said Punch, authoritatively. “Why 
doesn’t papa come in and say he is going to give 
me put-put f” 

“Punch-baba is going away,” said the ayah. 
“In another week there will be no Punch -baba to 
pull my hair any more.” She sighed softly, for 
the boy of the household was very dear to her 
heart. 

“Up the Ghauts in a train ?” said Punch, stand- 
ing on his bed. “All the way to Nassick, where 
the Ranee tiger lives?” 


1 12 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


“Not to Nassick this year, little sahib/’ said 
Meeta, lifting him on his shoulder. “Down to the 
sea, where the cocoanuts are thrown, and across 
the sea in a big ship. Will you take Meeta with 
you to Belait?” 

“You shall all come,” said Punch, from the 
height of Meeta’s strong arms. “Meeta, and 
the ayah , and the hamal, and Bhini-in-the-garden, 
and the salaam-captain-sahib-snake-man.’’ 

There was no mockery in Meeta’s voice when 
he replied : “Great is the sahib’s favor,” and laid 
the little man down in the bed, while the ayah, 
sitting in the moonlight at the doorway, lulled 
him to sleep with an interminable canticle such as 
they sing in the Roman Catholic Church at Parel. 
Punch curled himself into a ball and slept. 

Next morning, Judy shouted that there was a 
rat in the nursery ; and thus he forgot to tell her 
the wonderful news. It did not much matter, for 
Judy was only three and she would not have 
understood. But Punch was five, and he knew 
that going to England would be much nicer than 
a trip to Nassick. 

* * * * * * 

And papa and mamma sold the brougham and 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


1 13 

the piano, and stripped the house, and curtailed the 
allowance of crockery for the daily meals, and 
took long counsel together over a bundle of letters 
bearing the Rocklington postmark. 

“The worst of it is that one can’t be certain 
of anything,” said papa, pulling his mustache. 
“The letters in themselves are excellent, and the 
terms are moderate enough.” 

“The worst of it is that the children will grow 
up away from me,” thought mamma; but she did 
not say it aloud. 

“We are only one case among hundreds,” said 
papa, bitterly. “You shall go home again in five 
years, dear.” 

“Punch will be ten then — and Judy eight. Oh, 
how long and long and long the time will be! 
And we have to leave them among strangers.” 

“Punch is a cheery little chap. He’s sure to 
make friends wherever he goes.” 

“And who could help loving my Ju?” 

They were standing over the cots in the nur- 
sery late at night, and I think that mamma was 
crying softly. After papa had gone away she 
knelt down by the side of Judy’s cot. The ayah 
saw her and put up a prayer that the memsahih 


1 14 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

might never find the love of her children taken 
away from her and given to a stranger. 

Mamma’s own prayer was a slightly illogical 
one. Summarized it ran : “Let strangers love 
my children, and be as good to them as I should 
be ; but let me preserve their love and their confi- 
dence forever and ever. Amen.” Punch scratched 
himself in his sleep, and Judy moaned a little. 
That seems to be the only answer to the prayer ; 
and, next day, they all went down to' the sea, and 
there was a scene at the Apollo Bunder when 
Punch discovered that Meeta could not come, too, 
and Judy learned that the ayah must be left be- 
hind. But Punch found a thousand fascinating 
things in the rope, block, and steam-pipe line on 
the big P. and O. steamer long before Meeta and 
the ayah had dried their tears. 

“Come back, Punch -baba” said the ayah. 

“Come back,” said Meeta, “and be a Burra 
sahib” 

“Yes,” said Punch, lifted up in his father’s 
arms to wave good-bye. “Yes, I will come back, 
and I will be a Burra sahib Baha dur!” 

At the end of the first day, Punch demanded 
to be set down in England, which he was certain 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


115 

must be close at hand. Next day, there was a 
merry breeze, and Punch was very sick. “When 
I come back to Bombay,” said Punch, on his re- 
covery, “I will come by the road — in a broom- 
gharri. This is a very naughty ship.” 

The Swedish boatswain consoled him, and he 
modified his opinions as the voyage went on. 
There was so much to see, and to handle, and ask 
questions about that Punch nearly forgot the ayah, 
and Meeta, and the hamal, and with difficulty re- 
membered a few words of the Hindoostanee, once 
his second speech. 

But Judy was much worse. The day before the 
steamer reached Southampton, mamma asked her 
if she would not like to see the ayah again. Judy’s 
blue eyes turned to the stretch of sea that had 
swallowed all her tiny past, and she said: “Ayah! 
What ayah ?” 

Mamma cried over her and Punch marveled. 
It was then that he heard, for the first time, mam- 
ma’s passionate appeal to him never to let Judy 
forget mamma. Seeing that Judy was young, 
ridiculously young, and that mamma, every 
evening for four weeks past, had come into the 
cabin to sing her and Punch to sleep with a mys- 


Il6 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

terious tune that he called “Sonny, my soul,” 
Punch could not understand what mamma meant. 
But he strove to do his duty; for, the moment 
mamma left the cabin, he said to Judy : 

“Ju, you remember mamma?” 

“ ’Torse I do,” said Judy. 

“Then always remember mamma, else I won’t 
give you the paper ducks that the red-haired 
Captain Sahib cut out for me.” 

So Judy promised always to “bemember mam- 
ma.” 

Many and many a time was mamma’s command 
laid upon Punch, and papa would say the same 
thing with an insistence that awed the child. 

“You must make haste and learn to write, 
Punch,” said papa, “and then you’ll be able to 
write letters to us in Bombay.” 

“I’ll come into your room,” said Punch, and 
papa choked. 

Papa and mamma were always choking in those 
days. If Punch took Judy to task for not “be- 
membering,” they choked. If Punch sprawled on 
the sofa in the Southampton lodging-house and 
sketched his future in purple and gold, they 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


II 7 

choked ; and so they did if Judy put up her mouth 
for a kiss. 

Through many days all four were vagabonds 
on the face of the earth — Punch with no one to 
give orders to, Judy too young for anything, and 
papa and mamma grave, distracted, and choking. 

“Where,” demanded Punch, wearied of a 
loathsome contrivance on four wheels with a 
mound of luggage atop — “where is our broom- 
gharrif This thing talks so much that I can’t 
talk. Where is our own broom -gharri? When I 
was at Bandstand, before we corned away, I asked 
Inverarity Sahib why he was sitting in it, and he 
said it was his own. And I said, ‘I will give it 
you’ — I like Inverarity Sahib — and I said, ‘Can 
you put your legs through the pully-wag loops by 
the windows?’ And Inverarity Sahib said ‘No,’ 
and laughed. I can put my legs through the pully- 
wag loops. I can put my legs through these pully- 
wag loops. Look ! Oh, mamma’s crying again ! 
I didn’t know. I wasn’t not to do so” 

Punch drew his legs out of the loops of the 
four-wheeler ; the door opened and he slid to the 
earth, in a cascade of parcels, at the door of an 
austere little villa whose gates bore the legend, 


Il8 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

“Downe Lodge.” Punch gathered himself to- 
gether and eyed the house with disfavor. It stood 
on a sandy road, and a cold wind tickled his knick- 
erbockered legs. 

“Let us go away,” said Punch. “This is not a 
pretty place.” 

But mamma and papa and Judy had quitted 
the cab, and all the luggage was being taken into 
the house. At the door-step stood a woman in 
black, and she smiled largely, with dry, chapped 
lips. Behind her was a man — big, bony, gray, 
and lame as to one leg — behind him a boy of 
twelve, black-haired and oily in appearance. 
Punch surveyed the trio, and advanced without 
fear, as he had been accustomed to do in Bom- 
bay when callers came and he happened to be play- 
ing in the veranda. 

“How do you do?” said he. “I am Punch.” 
But they were all looking at the luggage — all ex- 
cept the gray man, who shook hands with Punch 
and said he was “a smart little fellow.” There 
was much running about and banging of boxes, 
and Punch curled himself up on the sofa in the 
dining-room and considered things. 

“I don’t like these people,” said Punch. “But 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. II9 

never mind. We’ll go away soon. We have al- 
ways went away soon from everywhere. I wish 
we was gone back to Bombay soon” 

The wish bore no fruit. For six days mamma 
wept at intervals, and showed the woman in black 
all Punch’s clothes — a liberty which Punch re- 
sented. “But p’r’aps she’s a new white ayah” he 
thought. “I’m to call her Antirosa, but she 
doesn’t call me sahib. She says just Punch,” he 
confided to Judy. “What is Antirosa?” 

Judy didn’t know. Neither she nor Punch had 
heard anything of an animal called an aunt. Their 
world had been papa and mamma, who knew 
everything, permitted everything, and loved 
everybody — even Punch when he used to go into 
the garden at Bombay and fill his nails with mold 
after the weekly nail-cutting, because, as he ex- 
plained, between two strokes of the slipper, to his 
sorely tried father, his fingers “felt so new at the 
ends.” 

In an undefined way, Punch judged it advisable 
to keep both parents between himself and the 
woman in black and the boy in black hair. He 
did not approve of them. He liked the gray man, 
who had expressed a wish to be called “Uncle- 


120 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


harri.” They nodded at each other when they 
met, and the gray man showed him a little ship 
with rigging that took up and down. 

“She is a model of the Brisk — the little Brisk 
that was sore exposed that day at Navarino.” The 
gray man hummed the last words and fell into a 
reverie. “I’ll tell you about Navarino, Punch, 
when we go for walks together ; and you mustn’t 
touch the ship, because she’s the Brisk” 

Long before that walk, the first of many, was 
taken, they roused Punch and Judy in the chill 
dawn of a February morning to say good-bye, 
and of all people in the wide earth, to papa and 
mamma — both crying this time. Punch was very 
sleepy, and Judy was cross. 

“Don’t forget us,” pleaded mamma. “Oh, my 
little son, don’t forget us, and see that Judy re- 
members us, too.” 

“I’ve told Judy to bemember,” said Punch, 
wriggling, for his father’s beard tickled his neck. 
“I’ve told Judy — ten — forty — ’leven thousand 
times. But Ju’s so young — quite a baby — isn’t 
she?” 

“Yes,” said papa, “quite a baby, and you must 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


12 1 


be good to Judy, and make haste to learn to write 
and — and — and — ” 

Punch was back in his bed again. Judy was 
fast asleep, and there was the rattle of a cab below. 
Papa and mamma had gone away. Not to Nas- 
sick; that was across the sea. To some place 
much nearer, of course, and equally of course they 
would return. They came back after dinner-par- 
ties, and papa had come back after he had been 
to a place called “The Snows,” and mamma with 
him, to Punch and Judy at Mrs. Inverarity’s house 
in Marine Lines. Assuredly they would come 
back again. So Punch fell asleep till the true 
morning, when the black-haired boy met him with 
the information that papa and mamma had gone 
to Bombay, and that he and Judy were to stay at 
Downe Lodge “forever.” Antirosa, tearfully ap- 
pealed to for a contradiction, said that Harry had 
spoken the truth, and that it behooved Punch to 
fold up his clothes neatly on going to bed. Punch 
went out and wept bitterly with Judy, into whose 
fair head he had driven some ideas of the meaning 
of separation. 

When a matured man discovers that he has been 
deserted by Providence, deprived of his God, and 


122 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


cast without help, comfort, or sympathy, upon a 
world which is new and strange to him, his de- 
spair, which may find expression in evil-living, the 
writing of his experiences, or the more satisfac- 
factory diversion of suicide, is generally supposed 
to be impressive. A child, under exactly similar 
circumstances, as far as its knowledge goes, can 
not very well curse God and die. It howls till its 
nose is red, its eyes are sore, and its head aches. 
Punch and Judy, through no fault of their own, 
had lost all their world. They sat in the hall and 
cried ; the black-haired boy looking on from afar. 

The model of the ship availed nothing, though 
the gray man assured Punch that he might pull 
the rigging up and down as much as he pleased ; 
and Judy was promised free entry into the kitchen. 
They wanted papa and mamma, gone to Bombay 
beyond the seas, and their grief, while it lasted, 
was without remedy. 

When the tears ceased, the house was very still. 
Antirosa had decided it was much better to let the 
children “have their cry out,” and the boy had 
gone to school. Punch raised his head from the 
floor and sniffled mournfully. Judy was nearly 
asleep. Three short years had not taught her how 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


123 


to bear sorrow with full knowledge. There was 
a distant dull boom in the air — a repeated heavy 
thud. Punch knew that sound in Bombay in the 
monsoon. It was the sea — the sea that must be 
traversed before any one could get to Bombay. 

“Quick, Ju !” he cried, “we’re close to the sea. 
I can hear it! Listen! That’s where they’ve 
went. P’r’aps we can catch them, if we was in 
time. They didn’t mean to go without us. 
They’ve only forgot.” 

“Iss,” said Judy. “They’ve only foigotted. 
Less go to the sea.” 

The hall door was open and so was the garden 
gate. 

“It’s very, very big, this place,” he said, look- 
ing cautiously down the road, “and we will get 
lost ; but I will find a man and order him to take 
me back to my house — like I did in Bombay.” 

He took Judy by the hand, and the two fled hat- 
less in the direction of the sound of the sea. 
Downe Villa was almost the last of a range of 
newly built houses running out, through a chaos 
of brick-mounds, to a heath where gypsies occa- 
sionally camped, and where the Garrison Artillery 
of Rocklington practiced. There were few people 


124 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


to be seen, and the children might have been taken 
for those of the soldiery who ranged far. Half 
an hour the wearied little legs tramped across 
heath, potato-field, and sand-dune. 

‘Tse so tired,” said Judy, “and mamma will be 
angry.” • 

“Mamma’s never angry. I suppose she is wait- 
ing at the sea now while papa gets tickets. We’ll 
find them and go along with. Ju, you mustn’t 
sit down. Only a little more and we’ll come to 
the sea. Ju, if you sit down I’ll thmack you!” 
said Punch. 

They climbed another dune, and came upon 
the great gray sea at low tide. Hundreds of crabs 
were scuttling about the beach, but there was no 
trace of papa and mamma, not even of a ship upon 
the waters — nothing but sand and mud for miles 
and miles. 

And “Uncleharri” found them by chance — very 
muddy and very forlorn — Punch dissolved in 
tears, but trying to divert Judy with an “ickle 
trab,” and Judy wailing to the pitiless horizon for 
“mamma, mamma!” and again “mamma!” 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


125 


THE SECOND BAG. 

Ah, well-a-day, for we are souls bereaved! 

Of all the creatures under heaven’s wide scope 
We are most hopeless, who had once most hope, 

And most beliefless, who had most believed. 

The City of Dreadful Night. 

All this time not a word about Black Sheep. 
He came later, and Harry, the black-haired boy, 
was mainly responsible for his coming. 

Judy — who could help loving little Judy? — 
passed, by special permit, into the kitchen and 
thence straight to Aunty Rosa’s heart. Harry 
was Aunty Rosa’s one child, and Punch was the 
extra boy about the house. There was no special 
place for him or his little affairs, and he was for- 
bidden to sprawl on sofas and explain his ideas 
about the manufacture of this world and his hopes 
for his future. Sprawling was lazy and wore out 
sofas, and little boys were not expected to talk. 
They were talked to, and the talking to was in- 
tended for the benefit of their morals. As the 
unquestioned despot of the house at Bombay, 
Punch could not quite understand how he came 

to be of no account in this his new life. 

9 


126 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Harry might reach across the table and take 
what he wanted ; Judy might point and get what 
she wanted. Punch was forbidden to do either. 
The gray man was his great hope and stand-by for 
many months after mamma and papa left, and he 
had forgotten to tell Judy to “bemember mamma.” 

This lapse was excusable, because, in the in- 
terval, he had been introduced by Aunty Rosa to 
two very impressive things — an abstraction called 
God, the intimate friend and ally of Aunty Rosa, 
generally believed to live behind the kitchen- 
range, because it was hot there — and a dirty brown 
book filled with unintelligible dots and marks. 
Punch was always anxious to oblige everybody. 
He, therefore, welded the story of the Creation 
on to what he could recollect of his Indian fairy 
tales, and scandalized Aunty Rosa by repeating 
the result to Judy. It was a sin, a grievous sin, 
and Punch was talked to for a quarter of an hour. 
He could not understand where the iniquity came 
in, but was careful not to repeat the offense, be- 
cause Aunty Rosa told him that God had heard 
every word he had said and was very angry. If 
this were true, why didn’t God come and say so, 
thought Punch, and dismissed the matter from his 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


127 


mind. Afterward he learned to know the Lord as 
the only thing in the world more awful than 
Aunty Rosa — as a creature that stood in the back- 
ground and counted the strokes of the cane. 

But the reading was, just then, a much more 
serious matter than any creed. Aunty Rosa sat 
him upon a table and told him that A B meant ab. 

“Why?” said Punch. “A is a and B is bee. 
Why does A B mean ab?” 

“Because I tell you it does,” said Aunty Rosa, 
“and you’ve got to say it.” 

Punch said it accordingly, and for a month, 
hugely against his will, stumbled through the 
brown book, not in the least comprehending what 
it meant. But Uncle Harry, who walked much, 
and generally alone, was wont to come into the 
nursery and suggest to Aunty Rosa that Punch 
should walk with him. He seldom spoke, but he 
showed Punch all Rocklington, from the mud- 
banks and the sand of the back-bay to the great 
harbors where ships lay at anchor, and the dock- 
yards where the hammers are never still, and the 
marine-store shops, and the shiny brass counters 
in the offices where Uncle Harry went once every 
three months with a slip of blue paper and received 


128 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


sovereigns in exchange ; for he held a wound-pen- 
sion. Punch heard, too, from his lips, the story 
of the Battle of NavarinO’, where the sailors of the 
fleet, for three days afterward, were deaf as posts 
and could only sign to each other. “That was be- 
cause of the noise of the guns,” said Uncle Harry, 
“and I have got the wadding of a bullet some- 
where inside me now.” 

Punch regarded him with curiosity. He had 
not the least idea what wadding was, and his no- 
tion of a bullet was a dock-yard cannon-ball big- 
ger than his own head. How could Uncle Harry 
keep a cannon-ball inside him? He was ashamed 
to ask, for fear Uncle Harry might be angry. 

Punch had never known what anger — real 
anger — meant until one terrible day when Harry 
had taken his paint-box to paint a boat with, and 
Punch had protested with a loud and lamentable 
voice. Then Uncle Harry had appeared on the 
scene, and, muttering something about “strangers’ 
children,” had, with a stick, smitten the black- 
haired boy across the shoulders till he wept and 
yelled, and Aunty Rosa came in and abused Uncle 
Harry for cruelty to his own flesh and blood, and 
Punch shuddered to the tips of his shoes. “It 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 1 29 

wasn’t my fault,” he explained to the boy, but both 
Harry and Aunty Rosa said that it was, and that 
Punch had told tales, and for a week there were 
no more walks with Uncle Harry. 

But that week brought a great joy to Punch. 

He had repeated, till he was thrice weary, the 
statement that “the cat lay on the mat and the 
rat came in.” 

“Now I can truly read,” said Punch, “and now 
I will never read anything in the world.” 

He put the brown book in the cupboard where 
his school-books lived, and accidentally tumbled 
out a venerable volume, without covers, labeled 
“Sharpe’s Magazine.” There was the most por- 
tentous picture of a griffin on the first page, with 
verses below. The griffin carried off one sheep 
a day from a German village, till a man came with 
a “falchion” and split the griffin open. Goodness 
only knew what a falchion was, but there was the 
griffin, and his history was an improvement upon 
the eternal cat. 

“This,” said Punch, “means things, and now I 
will know all about everything in all the world.” 
He read till the light failed, not understanding a 


130 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


tithe of the meaning, but tantalized by glimpses of 
new worlds hereafter to be revealed. 

“What is a 'falchion?’ What is a 'wee lamb?’ 
What is a 'base wmirper?’ What is a ‘verdant 
me-ad ?’ ” he demanded, with flushed cheeks, at 
bed-time, of the astonished Aunt Rosa. 

“Say your prayers and go to sleep,” she re- 
plied, and that was all the help Punch then or 
afterward found at her hands in the new and de- 
lightful exercise of reading. 

“Aunt Rosa only knows about God and things 
like that,” argued Punch. “Uncle Harry will tell 
me.” 

The next walk proved that Uncle Harry could 
not help either ; but he allowed Punch to talk, and 
even sat down on a bench to hear about the griffin. 
Other walks brought other stories as Punch 
ranged farther afield, for the house held a large 
store of old books that no one ever opened — from 
Frank Fairlegh, in serial numbers, and the earlier 
poems of Tennyson, contributed anonymously to 
“Sharpe’s Magazine,” to ’62 Exhibition Cata- 
logues, gay with colors and delightfully incom- 
prehensible, and odd leaves of “Gulliver’s 
Travels.” 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


131 

As soon as Punch could string a few pot-hooks 
together he wrote to Bombay, demanding by re- 
turn of post “all the books in all the world.” Papa 
could not comply with this modest indent, but sent 
“Grimm’s Fairy Tales” and a “Hans Andersen.” 
That was enough. If he were only left alone 
Punch could pass, at any hour he chose, into a land 
of his own, beyond reach of Aunty Rosa and her 
God, Harry and his teasements, and Judy’s claims 
to be played with. 

“Don’t disturve me, I’m reading. Go and play 
in the kitchen,” grunted Punch. “Aunty Rosa 
lets you go there.” Judy was cutting her second 
teeth and was fretful. She appealed to Aunty 
Rosa, who descended on Punch. 

“I was reading,” he explained, “reading a book. 
I want to read.” 

“You’re only doing that to show off,” said 
Aunty Rosa. “But we’ll see. Play with Judy 
now, and don’t open a book for a week.” 

Judy did not pass a very enjoyable playtime 
with Punch, who was consumed with indignation. 
There was a pettiness at the bottom of the pro- 
hibition which puzzled him. 

“It’s what I like to do,” he said, “and she’s 


132 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


found out that and stopped me. Don’t cry, Ju — 
it wasn’t your fault — please don’t cry, or she’ll say 
I made you.” 

Ju loyally mopped up her tears, and the two 
played in their nursery, a room in the basement 
and half underground, to which they were regu- 
larly sent after the midday dinner while Aunty 
Rosa slept. She drank wine — that is to say, some- 
thing from a bottle in the cellaret — for her stom- 
ach’s sake ; but if she did not fall asleep she would 
sometimes come into the nursery to see that the 
children were really playing. Now, bricks, wooden 
hoops, nine-pins, and china-ware can not amuse 
forever, especially when all fairyland is to be won 
by the mere opening of a book, and, as often as 
not, Punch would be discovered reading to Judy 
or telling her interminable tales. That was an of- 
fense in the eyes of the law, and Judy would be 
whisked off by Aunty Rosa, while Punch was left 
to play alone, “and be sure that I hear you do- 
ing it.” 

It was not a cheering employ, for he had to 
make a playful noise. At last, with infinite craft, 
he devised an arrangement whereby the table could 
be supported as to three legs on toy bricks, leav- 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. I33 

ing the fourth clear to bring down on the floor. 
He could work the table with one hand and hold 
a book with the other. This he did till an evil day 
when Aunty Rosa pounced upon him unawares 
and told him that he was “acting a lie.” 

“If you’re old enough to do that,” she said — her 
temper was always worst after dinner — “you’re 
old enough to be beaten.” 

' “But — I’m — I’m not a animal !” said Punch, 
aghast. He remembered Uncle Harry and the 
stick, and turned white. Aunty Rosa had hidden 
a light cane behind her, and Punch was beaten 
then and there over the shoulders. It was a reve- 
lation to him. The room-door was shut, and he 
was left to weep himself into repentance and work 
out his own gospel of life. 

Aunty Rosa, he argued, had the power to beat 
him with many stripes. It was unjust and cruel, 
and mamma and papa would never have allowed 
it. Unless, perhaps, as Aunty Rosa seemed to im- 
ply, they had sent secret orders, in which case he 
was abandoned, indeed. It would be discreet in the 
future to propitiate Aunty Rosa ; but, then, again, 
even in matters in which he was innocent, he had 
been accused of wishing to “show off.” He had 


134 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


“shown off” before visitors when he had attacked 
a strange gentleman — Harry’s uncle, not his own 
— with requests for information about the griffin 
and the falchion, and the precise nature of the 
tilbury in which Frank Fairlegh rode; all points 
of paramount interest which he was bursting to 
understand. Clearly it would not do to pretend to 
care for Aunty Rosa. 

At this point Harry entered and stood afar off, 
eyeing Punch, a disheveled heap in the corner of 
the room, with disgust. 

“You’re a liar — a young liar,” said Harry, with 
great unction, “and you’re to have tea down here 
because you’re not fit to* speak to us. And you’re 
not to speak to Judy again till mother gives you 
leave. You’ll corrupt her. You’re only fit to 
associate with the servant. Mother says so.” 

Having reduced Punch to a second agony of 
tears, Harry departed downstairs with the news 
that Punch was still rebellious. 

Uncle Harry sat uneasily in the dining-room. 
“Rosa,” said he, at last, “can’t you leave the child 
alone? He’s a good enough little chap when I 
met him.” 

“He puts on his best manners with you, Henry,” 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 1 35 

said Aunty Rosa, “but I’m afraid, I’m very much 
afraid, that he is the black sheep of the family.” 

Harry heard and stored up the name for future 
use. Judy cried till she was bidden to stop, her 
brother not being worth tears; and the evening 
concluded with the return of Punch to the upper 
regions and a private sitting at which all the blind- 
ing horrors of hell were revealed to Punch with 
such store of imagery as Aunty Rosa’s narrow 
mind possessed. 

Most grievous of all was Judy’s round-eyed re- 
proach, and Punch went to' bed in the depths of the 
Valley of Humiliation. He shared his room with 
Harry and knew the torture in store. For an hour 
and a half he had to answer that young gentle- 
man’s question as to his motives for telling a lie, 
and a grievous lie, the precise quantity of punish- 
ment inflicted by Aunty Rosa, and had also to 
profess his deep gratitude for such religious in- 
struction as Harry thought fit tO' impart. 

From that day began the downfall of Punch, 
now Black Sheep. 

“Untrustworthy in one thing, untrustworthy 
in all,” said Aunty Rosa, and Harry felt that Black 
Sheep was delivered into his hands. He would 


136 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


wake him up in the night to ask him why he was 
such a liar. 

“I don’t know,” Punch would reply. 

“Then don’t you think you ought to get up and 
pray to God for a new heart?” 

“Y-yess.” 

“Get out and pray, then!” And Punch would 
get out of bed with raging hate in his heart against 
all the world, seen and unseen. He was always 
tumbling into trouble. Harry had a knack of 
cross-examining him as to his day’s doings, which 
seldom failed to lead him, sleepy and savage, into 
half-a-dozen contradictions — all duly reported to 
Aunty Rosa next morning. 

“But it wasn’t ia. lie,” Punch would begin, 
charging into a labored explanation that landed 
him more hopelessly in the mire. “I said that I 
didn’t say my prayers twice over in the day, and 
that was on Tuesday. Once I did. I know I did, 
but Harry said I didn’t,” and so forth, till the 
tension brought tears, and he was dismissed from 
the table in disgrace. 

“You usen’t to be as bad as this!” said Judy, 
awe-stricken at the catalogue of Black Sheep’s 
crimes. “Why are you so bad now?” 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


137 


“I don’t know,” Black Sheep would reply. “Fm 
not, if I only wasn’t bothered upside down. I 
knew what I did, and I want to say so ; but Harry 
always makes it out different somehow, and Aunty 
Rosa doesn’t believe a word I say. Oh, Ju ! don’t 
you say Fm bad, too.” 

“Aunty Rosa says you are,” said Judy. “She 
told the vicar so when he came yesterday.” 

“Why does she tell all the people outside the 
house about me ? It isn’t fair,” said Black Sheep. 
“When I was in Bombay, and was bad — doing 
bad, not made-up bad like this — mamma told 
papa, and papa told me he knew, and that was all. 
Outside people didn’t know, too — even Meeta 
didn’t know.” 

“I don’t remember,” said Judy, wistfully. “I 
was all little then. Mamma was just as fond of 
you as she was of me, wasn’t she?” 

“ ’Course she was. So was papa. So was 
everybody.” 

“Aunty Rosa likes me more than she does you. 
She says that you are a trial and a black sheep, 
and Fm not to speak to you more than I can help.” 

“Always? Not outside of the times when you 
mustn’t speak to me at all?” 


138 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

Judy nodded her head mournfully. Black 
Sheep turned away in despair, but Judy’s arms 
were round his neck. 

“Never mind, Punch,” she whispered. “I will 
speak to you just the same as ever and ever. 
You’re my own, own brother, though you are — 
though Aunty Rosa says you’re bad, and Harry 
says you’re a little coward. He says that if I 
pulled your hair hard, you’d cry.” 

“Pull, then,” said Punch. 

Judy pulled gingerly. 

“Pull harder — as hard as you can ! There ! I 
don’t mind how much you pull it now. If you’ll 
speak to me the same as ever, I’ll let you pull it 
as much as you like — pull it out if you like. But 
I know if Harry came and stood by and made you 
do it, I’d cry.” 

So the two children sealed the compact with a 
kiss, and Black Sheep’s heart was cheered within 
him, and by extreme caution and careful avoid- 
ance of Harry, he acquired virtue, and was al- 
lowed to read undisturbed for a week. Uncle 
Harry took him for walks and consoled him with 
rough tenderness, never calling him Black Sheep. 
“It’s good for you, I suppose, Punch,” he used to 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


139 


say. “Let us sit down. I’m getting tired.” His 
steps led him now, not to the beach, but to the 
cemetery of Rocklington, amid the potato fields. 
For hours the gray man would sit on a tombstone, 
while Black Sheep read epitaphs, and then, with 
a sigh, would stump home again. 

“I shall lie there soon,” said he to Black Sheep, 
one winter evening, when his face showed white 
as a worn silver coin under the lights of the chapel 
lodge. “You needn’t tell Aunty Rosa.” 

A month later, he turned sharp round, ere half 
a morning walk was completed, and stumped back 
to the house. “Put me to bed, Rosa,” he muttered. 
“I’ve walked my last. The wadding has found me 
out.” 

They put him to' bed, and for a fortnight the 
shadow of his sickness lay upon the house, and 
Black Sheep went to and fro unobserved. Papa 
had sent him some new books, and he was told to 
keep quiet. He retired into his own world, and 
was perfectly happy. Even at night his felicity 
was unbroken. He could lie in bed and string 
himself tales of travel and adventure while Harry 

X 

was down-stairs. 

“Uncle Harry’s going to die,” said Judy, who 


140 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


now lived almost entirely with Aunty Rosa. 

“I’m very sorry,” said Black Sheep, soberly. 
“He told me that a long time ago.” 

Aunty Rosa heard the conversation. “Will 
nothing check your wicked tongue?” she said, 
angrily. There were blue circles round her eyes. 

Black Sheep retreated to the nursery and read 
“Cometh Up as a Flower” with deep and un- 
comprehending interest. He had been forbidden 
to read it on account of its “sinfulness,” but the 
bonds of the universe were crumbling, and Aunty 
Rosa was in great grief. 

“I’m glad,” said Black Sheep. “She’s unhappy 
now. It wasn’t a lie, though. / knew. He told 
me not to tell.” 

That night Black Sheep woke with a start. 
Harry was not in the room, and there was a sound 
of sobbing on the next floor. Then the voice of 
Uncle Harry, singing the song of the Battle of 
Navarino, cut through the darkness: 

“ ‘Our vanship was the Asia — 

The Albion and Genoa!’ ” 

“He’s getting well,” thought Black Sheep, who 
knew the song through all its seventeen verses. 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


HI 

But the blood froze at his little heart as he 
thought. The voice leaped an octave and rang 
shrill as a boatswain’s pipe : 

“ ‘And next came on the lovely Rose, 

The Philomel, her fire-ship, closed, 

And the little Brisk was sore exposed 
That day at Navarino.’ ” 

“That day at Navarino', Uncle Harry!” shouted 
Black Sheep, half wild with excitement and fear 
of he knew not what. 

A door opened, and Aunty Rosa screamed up 
the stair-case: “Hush! For God’s sake, hush, 
you little devil ! Uncle Harry is dead!” 

THE THIRD BAG. 

“Journeys end in lovers’ meeting, 

Every wise man’s son doth know.” 

“I wonder what will happen to me now,” 
thought Black Sheep, when the semi-pagan rites, 
peculiar to the burial of the dead in middle-class 
houses, had been accomplished, and Aunty Rosa, 
awful in black crape, had returned to this life. “I 
don’t think I’ve done anything bad that she knows 

of. I suppose I will soon. She will be very cross 

10 


142 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


after Uncle Harry’s dying, and Harry will be 
cross, too. I’ll keep in the nursery.” 

Unfortunately for Punch’s plans, it was decided 
that he should be sent to a day-school which Harry 
attended. This meant a morning walk with 
Harry, and, perhaps, an evening one; but the 
prospect of freedom in the interval was refresh- 
ing. “Harry’ll tell everything I do, but I won’t 
do anything,” said Black Sheep. Fortified with 
this virtuous resolution, he went to school, only to 
find that Harry’s version of his character had pre- 
ceded him, and that life was a burden in conse- 
quence. He took stock of his associates. Some of 
them were unclean, some of them talked in dialect, 
many dropped their h’s, and there were two Jews 
and a negro, or someone quite as dark, in the as- 
sembly. “That’s a hubshi ” said Black Sheep to 
himself. “Even Meeta used to laugh at a hubshi. 
I don’t think this is a proper place.” He was in- 
dignant for at least an hour, till he reflected that 
any expostulation on his part would be by Aunty 
Rosa construed into “showing off,” and that 
Harry would tell the boys. 

“How do you like school ?” said Aunty Rosa at 
the end of the day. 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 1 43 

“I think it is a very nice place,” said Punch, 
quietly. 

“I suppose you warned the boys of Black 
Sheep’s character ?” said Aunty Rosa to Harry. 

“Oh, yes,” said the censor of Black Sheep’s 
morals. “They all know about him.” 

“If I was with my father,” said Black Sheep, 
stung to the quick, “I shouldn’t speak to those 
boys. He wouldn’t let me. They live in shops. I 
saw them go into shops — where their fathers live 
and sell things.” 

“You’re too good for that school, are you?” 
said Aunty Rosa, with a bitter smile. “You ought 
to be grateful, Black Sheep, that those boys speak 
to you at all. It isn’t every school that takes little 
liars.” 

Harry did not fail to make much capital out of 
Black Sheep’s ill-considered remark, with the re- 
sult that several boys, including the hubshi, dem- 
onstrated to Black Sheep the eternal equality of 
the human race by smacking his head, and his con- 
solation from Aunty Rosa was that it “served him 
right for being vain.” He learned, however, to 
keep his opinions to himself, and by propitiating 
Harry in carrying books and the like to secure a 


144 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


little peace. His existence was not too joyful. 
From nine till twelve he was at school, and from 
two to four, except on Saturdays. In the evenings 
he was sent down into the nursery to prepare his 
lessons for the next day, and every night came the 
dreaded cross-questionings at Harry’s hand. Of 
Judy he saw but little. She was deeply religious 
— at six years of age religion is easy to come by — 
and sorely divided between her natural love for 
Black Sheep and her love for Aunty Rosa, who 
could do no wrong. 

The lean woman returned that love with in- 
terest, and Judy, when she dared, took advantage 
of this for the remission of Black Sheep’s penal- 
ties. Failures in lessons at school were punished 
at home by a week without reading other than 
school books, and Harry brought the news of such 
a failure with glee. Further, Black Sheep was 
then bound to repeat his lessons at bed-time to 
Harry, who generally succeeded in making him 
break down, and consoled him by gloomiest fore- 
bodings for the morrow. Harry was at once spy, 
practical joker, inquisitor, and Aunty Rosa’s dep- 
uty executioner. He filled his many 'posts to ad- 
miration. From his actions, now that Uncle 
Harry was dead, there was no appeal. Black 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


145 


Sheep had not been permitted to keep any self- 
respect at school ; at home he was of course ut- 
terly discredited, and grateful for any pity that 
the servant-girls — they changed frequently at 
Downe Lodge because they, too, were liars — 
might show. “You’re just fit to row in the same 
boat with Black Sheep,” was a sentiment that each 
new Jane or Eliza might expect to hear, before 
a month was over, from Aunty Rosa’s lips; and 
Black Sheep was used to ask new girls whether 
they had yet been compared to him. Harry was 
“Master Harry” in their mouths; Judy was offi- 
cially “Miss Judy;” but Black Sheep was never 
anything more than Black Sheep tout court. 

As time went on and the memory of papa and 
mamma became wholly overlaid by the unpleasant 
task of writing them letters, under Aunty Rosa’s 
eye, each Sunday, Black Sheep forgot what man- 
ner of life he had led in the beginning of things. 
Even Judy’s appeals to “try and remember about 
Bombay” failed to quicken him. 

“I can’t remember,” he said. “I know I used 
to give orders and mamma kissed me.” 

“Aunty Rosa will kiss you if you are good,” 
pleaded Judy. 


146 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


“Ugh! I don’t want to be kissed by Aunty 
Rosa. She’d say I was doing it to get something 
more to eat.” 

The weeks lengthened into months, and the 
holidays came; but just before the holidays Black 
Sheep fell into deadly sin. 

Among the many boys whom Harry had incited 
to “punch Black Sheep’s head because he daren’t 
hit back,” was one more aggravating than the rest, 
who, in an unlucky moment, fell upon Black Sheep 
when Harry was not near. The blows stung, and 
Black Sheep struck back at random with all the 
power at his command. The boy dropped and 
whimpered. Black Sheep was astounded at his 
own act, but, feeling the unresisting body under 
him, shook it with both his hands in blind fury, 
and then began to throttle his enemy, meaning 
honestly to slay him. There was a scuffle, and 
Black Sheep was torn off the body by Harry and 
some colleagues, and cuffed home, tingling but 
exultant. Aunty Rosa was out ; pending her ar- 
rival, Harry set himself to lecture Black Sheep 
on the sin of murder — which he described as the 
offense of Cain. 

“Why didn’t you fight him fair? What did 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. I47 

you hit him when he was down for, you little 
cur?” 

Black Sheep looked up at Harry’s throat, and 
then at a knife on the dinner-table. 

“I don’t understand,” he said, wearily. “You 
always set him on me, and told me I was a coward 
when I blubbered. Will you leave me alone until 
Aunty Rosa comes in ? She’ll beat me if you tell 
her I ought to be beaten; so' it’s all right.” 

“It’s all wrong,” said Harry, magisterially. 
“You nearly killed him, and I shouldn’t wonder 
if he dies.” 

“Will he die?” said Black Sheep. 

“I dare say,” said Harry, “and then you’ll be 
hanged.” 

“All right,” said Black Sheep, possessing him- 
self of the table-knife. “Then I’ll kill you now. 
You say things and do things, and . . . and 

/ don’t know how things happen, and you never 
leave me alone — and I don’t care what happens !” 

He ran at the boy with the knife, and Harry 
fled upstairs to his room, promising Black Sheep 
the finest thrashing in the world when Aunty Rosa 
returned. Black Sheep sat at the bottom of the 
stairs, the table-knife in his hand, and wept for 


148 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


that he had not killed Harry. The servant-girl 
came up from the kitchen, took the knife away, 
and consoled him. But Black Sheep was beyond 
consolation. He would be badly beaten by Aunty 
Rosa; then there would be another beating at 
Harry’s hands ; then Judy would not be allowed to 
speak to him; then the tale would be told at 
school, and then. . . . 

There was no one to help and no one to care, 
and the best way out of the business was by death. 
A knife would hurt ; but Aunty Rosa had told him, 
a year ago, that if he sucked paint he would die. 
He went into the nursery, unearthed the now dis- 
used Noah’s Ark, and sucked the paint off as 
many animals as remained. It tasted abominable, 
but he had licked Noah’s dove clean by the time 
Aunty Rosa and Judy returned. He went up- 
stairs and greeted them with: “Please, Aunty 
Rosa, I believe I’ve nearly killed a boy at school, 
and I’ve tried to kill Harry, and when you’ve done 
all about God and hell, will you beat me and get 
it over?” 

The tale of the assault as told by Harry could 
only be explained on the ground of possession by 
the devil. Wherefore Black Sheep was not only 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


149 


most excellently beaten, once by Aunty Rosa, and 
once, when thoroughly cowed down, by Harry, 
but he was further prayed for at family prayers, 
together with Jane, who had stolen a cold rissole 
from the pantry and snuffled audibly as her enor- 
mity was brought before the Throne of Grace. 
Black Sheep was sore and stiff, but triumphant. 
He would die that very night and be rid of them 
all. No, he would ask for no forgiveness from 
Harry, and at bed-time would stand no question- 
ing at Harry’s hands, even though addressed as 
“Young Cain.” 

“I’ve been beaten,” said he, “and I’ve done other 
things. I don’t care what I do. If you speak to 
me to-night, Harry, I’ll get out and try to kill you. 
Now, you can kill me if you like.” 

Harry took his bed into the spare room, and 
Black Sheep lay down to die. 

It may be that the makers of Noah’s arks know 
that their animals are likely to find their way into 
young mouths, and paint them accordingly. Cer- 
tain it is that the common, weary next morning 
broke through the windows and found Black 
Sheep quite well and a good deal ashamed of him- 
self, but richer by the knowledge that he could. 


150 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

in extremity, secure himself against Harry for 
the future. 

When he descended to breakfast on the first 
day of the holidays, he was greeted with the news 
that Harry, Aunty Rosa, and Judy were going 
away to Brighton, while Black Sheep was to stay 
in the house with the servant. His latter outbreak 
suited Aunty Rosa’s plans admirably. It gave her 
good excuse for leaving the extra boy behind. 
Papa in Bombay, who really seemed to know a 
young sinner’s wants to the hour, sent, that week, 
a package of new books. And with these, and the 
society of Jane on board-wages, Black Sheep was 
left alone for a month. 

The books lasted for ten days. They were 
eaten too quickly, in long gulps of four-and- 
twenty hours at a time. Then came days of doing 
absolutely nothing, of dreaming dreams and 
marching imaginary armies up and down stairs, 
of counting the number of banisters, and of meas- 
uring the length and breadth of every room in 
hand-spans — fifty down the side, thirty across, 
and fifty back again. Jane made many friends, 
and, after receiving Black Sheep’s assurance that 
he would not tell of her absences, went out daily 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


151 

for long hours. Black Sheep would follow the 
rays of the sinking sun from the kitchen to the 
dining-room, and thence upward to his own bed- 
room, until all was gray dark, and he ran down to 
the kitchen fire and read by its light. He was 
happy in that he was left alone and could read as 
much as he pleased. But, later, he grew afraid of 
the shadows of window-curtains and the flapping 
of doors and the creaking of shutters. He went 
out into the garden, and the rustling of the laurel 
bushes frightened him. 

He was glad when they all returned — Aunty 
Rosa, Harry, and Judy — full of news, and Judy 
laden with gifts. Who could help loving loyal 
little Judy. In return for all her merry babble- 
ment, Black Sheep confided to her that the dis- 
tance from the hall door to the top of the first 
landing was exactly one hundred and eighty-four 
hand-spans. He had found it out himself. 

Then the old life recommenced ; but with a dif- 
ference, and a new sin. To his other iniquities 
Black Sheep had now added a phenomenal clum- 
siness — was as unfit to trust in action as he was 
in word. He himself could not account for spill- 
ing everything he touched, Upsetting glasses as he 


152 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


put his hand out, and bumping his head against 
doors that were manifestly shut. There was a gray 
haze upon all his world, and it narrowed month 
by month, until at last it left Black Sheep almost 
alone with the flapping curtains that were so like 
ghosts, and the nameless terrors of broad daylight 
that were only coats on pegs, after all. 

Holidays came and holidays went, and Black 
Sheep was taken to' see many people whose faces 
were all exactly alike; was beaten when occasion 
demanded, and tortured by Harry on all possible 
occasions; but defended by Judy through good 
and evil report, though she thereby drew upon 
herself the wrath of Aunty Rosa. 

The weeks were interminable, and papa and 
mamma were clean forgotten. Harry had left 
school and was a clerk in a banking-office. Freed 
from his presence, Black Sheep resolved that he 
should no longer be deprived of his allowance of 
pleasure-reading. Consequently when he failed at 
school he reported that all was well, and con- 
ceived a large contempt for Aunty Rosa as he saw 
how easy it was to deceive her. “She says I’m a 
little liar when I don’t tell lies, and now I do, she 
doesn’t know,” thought Black Sheep. Aunty Rosa 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


153 


had credited him in the past with petty cunning 
and stratagem that had never entered into his 
head. By the light of the sordid knowledge that 
she had revealed to him, he paid her back full tale. 
In a household where the most innocent of his mo- 
tives — his natural yearning for a little affection — 
had been interpreted into a desire for more bread 
and jam, or to ingratiate himself with strangers 
and so put Harry into the background, his work 
was easy. Aunty Rosa could penetrate certain 
kinds of hypocrisy, but not all. He set his child’s 
wits against hers and was no' more beaten. It 
grew monthly more and more of a trouble to read 
the school-books, and even the pages of the open- 
print story-books danced and were dim. So Black 
Sheep brooded in the shadows that fell about him 
and cut him off from the world, inventing hor- 
rible punishments for “dear Harry,” or plotting 
another line of the tangled web of deception that 
he wrapped round Aunty Rosa. Then the crash 
came and the cobwebs were broken. It was im- 
possible to foresee everything. Aunty Rosa made 
personal inquiries as to Black Sheep’s progress 
and received information that startled her. Step 
by step, with a delight as keen as when she con- 


154 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


victed an under-fed house-maid of the theft of 
cold meats, she followed the trail of Black Sheep’s 
delinquencies. For weeks and weeks, in order to 
escape banishment from the book-shelves, he had 
made a fool of Aunty Rosa, of Harry, of God, of 
all the world! Horrible, most horrible, and evi- 
dence of an utterly depraved mind. 

Black Sheep counted the cost. “It will only be 
one big beating and then she’ll put a card with 
‘Liar’ on my back, same as she did before. Harry 
will whack me at prayers and tell me I’m a child 
of the devil, and give me hymns to learn. But 
I’ve done all my reading and she never knew. 
She’ll say she knew all along. She’s an old liar, 
too,” said he. 

For three days Black Sheep was shut in his own 
bedroom — to prepare his heart. “That means two 
beatings. One at school and one here. That one 
will hurt most.” And it fell even as he thought. 
He was thrashed at school before the Jews and the 
hubshi, for the heinous crime of bringing home 
false reports of progress. He was thrashed at 
home by Aunty Rosa on the same account, and 
then the placard was produced. Aunty Rosa 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 1 55 

stitched it between his shoulders and bade him go 
for a walk with it upon him. 

“If you make me do that,” said Black Sheep, 
very quietly, “I shall burn this house down, and 
perhaps I’ll kill you. I don’t know whether I can 
kill you — you’re so bony — but I’ll try.” 

No punishment followed this blasphemy, 
though Black Sheep held himself ready to work 
his way to Aunty Rosa’s withered throat, and grip 
there till he was beaten off. Perhaps Aunty Rosa 
was afraid, for Black Sheep, having reached the 
Nadir of Sin, bore himself with a new reckless- 
ness. 

In the midst of all the trouble, there came a vis- 
itor from over the seas to Downe Lodge, who 
knew papa and mamma, and was commissioned to 
see Punch and Judy. Black Sheep was sent to the 
drawing-room, and charged into a solid tea-table 
laden with china. 

“Gently, gently, little man,” said the visitor, 
turning Black Sheep’s face to the light, slowly. 
“What’s that big bird on the palings ?” 

“What bird ?” asked Black Sheep. 

The visitor looked deep down into Black 
Sheep’s eyes for half a minute, and then said, sud- 


156 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

denly : “Good God, the little chap’s nearly blind !” 

It was a most business-like visitor. He gave 
orders, on his own responsibility, that Black Sheep 
was not to go to school or open a book until 
mamma came home. “She’ll be here in three 
weeks, as you know, of course,” said he; “and I’m 
Inverarity Sahib. I ushered you into this wicked 
world, young man, and a nice use you seem to 
have made of your time. You must do nothing 
whatever. Can you do that ?” 

“Yes,” said Punch, in a dazed way. He had 
known that mamma was coming. There was a 
chance, then, of another beating. Thank Heaven, 
papa wasn’t coming, too. Aunty Rosa had said of 
late that he ought to' be beaten by a man. 

For the next three weeks Black Sheep was 
strictly allowed to do nothing. He spent his time 
in the old nursery looking at the broken toys, for 
all of which account must be rendered to mamma. 
Aunty Rosa hit him over the hands if even a 
wooden boat were broken. But that sin was of 
small importance compared to the other revela- 
tions, so darkly hinted at by Aunty Rosa. “When 
your mother comes, and hears what I have to tell 
her, she may appreciate you properly,” she said, 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


157 


grimly, and mounted guard over Judy lest that 
small maiden should attempt to comfort her 
brother, to the peril of her own soul. 

And mamma came — in a four-wheeler and a 
flutter of tender excitement. Such a mamma! 
She was young, frivolously young, and beautiful, 
with delicately flushed cheeks, eyes that shone like 
stars, and a voice that needed no additional ap- 
peal of outstretched arms to draw little ones to her 
heart. Judy ran straight to her, but Black Sheep 
hesitated. Could this wonder be “showing off?” 
She would not put out her arms when she knew 
of his crimes. Meantime, was it possible that by 
fondling she wanted to' get anything out of Black 
Sheep? Only all his love and all his confidence; 
but that Black Sheep did not know. Aunty Rosa 
withdrew and left mamma kneeling between her 
children, half laughing, half crying, in the very 
hall where Punch and Judy had wept five years be- 
fore. 

“Well, chicks, do you remember me?” 

“No,” said Judy, frankly, “but I said ‘God bless 
papa and mamma’ ev’vy night.” 

“A little,” said Black Sheep. “Remember I 

wrote to vou every week, anyhow. That isn’t to 
11 


158 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

show off, but ’cause of what comes afterward.” 

“What comes after! What should come after, 
my darling boy?” And she drew him to her 
again. He came awkwardly, with many angles. 
“Not used to petting,” said the quick mother-soul. 
“The girl is.” 

“She’s too little to hurt anyone,” thought Black 
Sheep, “and if I said I’d kill her, she’d be afraid. 
I wonder what Aunty Rosa will tell.” 

There was a constrained late dinner, at the end 
of which mamma picked up Judy and put her to 
bed with endearments manifold. Faithless little 
Judy had shown her defection from Aunty Rosa 
already ; and that lady resented it bitterly. Black 
Sheep rose to leave the room. 

“Come and say good-night,” said Aunty Rosa, 
offering a withered cheek. 

“Huh!” said Black Sheep. “I never kiss you, 
and I’m not going to show off. Tell that woman 
what I’ve done, and see what she says.” 

Black Sheep climbed into bed feeling that he 
had lost Heaven after a glimpse through the gates. 
In half an hour “that woman” was bending over 
him. It wasn’t fair to come and hit him in the 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. 


159 


dark. Even Aunty Rosa never tried that. But no 
blow followed. 

“Are you showing off? I won’t tell you any- 
thing more than Aunty Rosa has, and she doesn’t 
know everything,” said Black Sheep, as clearly as 
he could for the arms round his neck. 

“Oh, my son — my little, little son ! It was my 
fault — my fault, darling — and yet how could we 
help it? Forgive me, Punch.” The voice died 
out in a broken whisper, and two hot tears fell on 
Black Sheep’s forehead. 

“Has she been making you cry, too ?” he asked. 
“You should see Jane cry. But you’re nice, and 
Jane is a born liar — Aunty Rosa says so.” 

“Hush, Punch, hush ! My boy, don’t talk like 
that. Try to love me a little bit — a little bit. You 
don’t know how I want it. Punch -baba, come 
back to me ! 1 am your mother — your own 

mother — and never mind the rest. I know — yes, 
I know, dear. It doesn’t matter now. Punch, 
won’t you care for me a little?” 

It is astonishing how much petting a big boy of 
ten can endure when he is quite sure that there is 
no one to laugh at him. Black Sheep had never 
been made much of before, and here was this beau- 


i6o 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


tiful woman treating him — Black Sheep, the Child 
of the Devil and the Inheritor of Undying Flame 
— as though he were a small god. 

“I care for you a great deal, mother dear,” he 
whispered at last, “and I’m glad you’ve come 
back ; but are you sure Aunty Rosa told you every- 
thing?” 

“Everything. What does it matter? But” — 
the voice broke with a sob that was also laughter 
— “Punch, my poor, dear, half-blind darling, 
don’t you think it was a little foolish of you ?” 

“No. It saved a lickin’.” 

Mamma shuddered and slipped away in the 
darkness to write a long letter to papa. Here is an 
extract : 

“ . . . Judy is a dear, plump little prig who 

adores the woman, and wears, with as much grav- 
ity as her religious opinions — only eight, Jack! — 
a venerable horse-hair atrocity which she calls her 
bustle! I have just burned it, and the child is 
asleep in my bed as I write. She will come to me 
at once. Punch I can not quite understand. He 
is well nourished, but seems to have been worried 
into a system of small deceptions which the 
woman magnifies into deadly sins. Don’t you 


BAA BAA, BLACK SHEEP. l6t 

recollect our own up-bringing, dear, when the fear 
of the Lord was so often the beginning of false- 
hood? I shall win Punch to me before long. I 
am taking the children away into the country to 
get them to know me, and, on the whole, I am con- 
tent, or shall be when you come home, dear boy ; 
and then, thank God, we shall be all under one 
roof again at last !” 

Three months later, Punch, no longer Black 
Sheep, has discovered that he is the veritable 
owner of a real, live, lovely mamma, who is also a 
sister, comforter, and friend, and that he must 
protect her till the father comes home. Deception 
does not suit the part of a protector, and when one 
can do anything without question, where is the use 
of deception ? 

“Mother would be awfully cross if you walked 
through that ditch,” says Judy, continuing a con- 
versation. 

“Mother’s never angry,” says Punch. “She’d 
just say, ‘You’re a little pagalf and that’s not nice, 
but I’ll show.” 

Punch walks through the ditch and mires him- 
self to the knees. “Mother dear,” he shouts, “I’m 
as dirty as I can pos-sib-\y be !” 


1 6 2 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

“Then change your clothes as quickly as you 
pos-sib-\y can!” rings out mother’s clear voice 
from the house. “And don’t be a little pagal!” 

“There! Told you so,” said Punch. “It’s all 
different now, and we are just as much mother’s 
as if she had never gone.” 

Not altogether, oh Punch, for when young lips 
have drunk deep of the bitter waters of Hate, Sus- 
picion, and Despair, all the love in the world will 
not wholly take away that knowledge; though it 
may turn darkened eyes for awhile to the light, 
and teach Faith where no Faith was. 


THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST. 


Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the 
twain shall meet, 

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great 
Judgment Seat; 

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor 
Breed, nor Birth, 

When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they 
come from the ends of the earth! 

Kamal is out with twenty men to raise the Border 
side, 

And he has lifted the Colonel’s mare that is the 
Colonel’s pride : 

He has lifted her out of the stable-door between 
the dawn and the day, 

And turned the calkins upon her feet, and ridden 
her far away. 

Then up and spoke the Colonel’s son that led a 
troop of the Guides : 

“Is there never a man of all my men can say where 
Kamal hides?” 

Then up and spoke M^hommed Khan, the son of 
the Ressaldar, 


163 


164 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

“If ye know the track of the morning-mist, ye 
know where his pickets are. 

“At dusk he harries the Abazai — at dawn he is 
into Bonair, 

“But he must go by Fort Bukloh to his own place 
to fare, 

“So if ye gallop to Fort Bukloh as fast as a bird 
can fly, 

“By the favour of God ye may cut him off ere he 
win to the Tongue of Jagai, 

“But if he be passed the Tongue of Jagai, right 
swiftly turn ye then, 

“For the length and the breadth of that grisly 
plain is sown with Kamal’s men. 

“There is rock to the left, and rock to the right, 
and low lean thorn between, 

“And ye may hear a breech-bolt snick where never 
a man is seen.” 

The Colonel’s son has taken a horse, and a raw- 
rough dun was he, 

With the mouth of a bell and the heart of Hell, 
and the head of the gallows-tree. 

The Colonel’s son to the Fort has won, they bid 
him stay to eat- — 





* 




“Ye shoot like a 


soldier” Kamal said, 
if ye can ride” 


Page 165 
“ Show now 


$ 





THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST. 1 65 

Who rides at the tail of a Border thief, he sits not 
long at his meat. 

He’s up and away from Fort Bukloh as fast as he 
can fly, 

Till he was aware of his father’s mare in the gut 
of the Tongue of Jagai, 

Till he was aware of his father’s mare with Kamal 
upon her back, 

And when he could spy the white of her eye, he 
made the pistol crack. 

He has fired once, he has fired twice, but the 
whistling ball went wide. 

“Ye shoot like a soldier,” Kamal said. “Show 
now if ye can ride.” 

It’s up and over the Tongue of Jagai, as blown 
dust-devils go, 

The dun he fled like a stag of ten, but the mare 
like a barren doe. 

The dun he leaned against the bit and slugged his 
head above, 

But the red mare played with the snaffle-bars, as a 
maiden plays with a glove. 

There was rock to the left and rock to the right, 
and low lean thorn between, 


1 66 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

And thrice he heard a breech-bolt snick tho’ never 
a man was seen. 

They have ridden the low moon out of the sky, 
their hoofs drum up the dawn, 

The dun he went like a wounded bull, but the mare 
like a new-roused fawn. 

The dun he fell at a water-course — in a woful heap 
fell he, 

And Kamal has turned the red mare back, and 
pulled the rider free. 

He has knocked the pistol out of his hand — small 
room was there to strive, 

“ ’Twas only by favour of mine,” quoth he, “ye 
rode so long alive; 

“There was not a rock for twenty mile, there was 
not a clump of tree, 

“But covered a man of my own men with his rifle 
cocked on his knee. 

“If I had raised my bridle-hand, as I have held it 
low, 

“The little jackals that flee so fast, were feasting 
all in a row : 

“If I had bowed my head on my breast, as I have 
held it high, 


THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST. 1 67 

“The kite that whistles above us now were gorged 
till she could not fly.” 

Lightly answered the Colonel’s son : — “Do good 
to bird and beast, 

“But count who come for the broken meats before 
thou makest a feast. 

“If there should follow a thousand swords to 
carry my bones away, 

“Belike the price of a jackal’s meax were more than 
a thief could pay. 

“They will feed their horse on the standing crop, 
their men on the garnered grain, 

“The thatch of the byres will serve their fires 
when all the cattle are slain. 

“But if thou thinkest the price be fair, — thy 
brethren wait to sup, 

“The hound is kin to the jackal-spawn, — howl, 
dog, and call them up ! 

“And if thou thinkest the price be high, in steer 
and gear and stack, 

“Give me my father’s mare again, and I’ll fight my 
own way back!” 

Kamal has gripped him by the hand and set him 
upon his feet. 


1 68 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

“No talk shall be of dogs,” said he, “when wolf 
and grey wolf meet. 

“May I eat dirt if thou hast hurt of me in deed or 
breath ; 

“What dam of lances brought thee forth to jest at 
the dawn with Death?” 

Lightly answered the Colonel’s son: “I hold by 
the blood of my clan : 

“Take up the mare for my father’s gift — she has 
carried a man !” 

The red mare ran to the Colonel’s son, and nuz- 
zled against his breast, 

“We be two strong men,” said Kamal then, “but 
she loveth the younger best. 

“So she shall go with a lifter’s dower, my tur- 
quoise-studded rein, 

“My broidered saddle and saddle-cloth, and silver 
stirrups twain.” 

The Colonel’s son a pistol drew and held it muz- 
zle-end, 

“Ye have taken the one from a foe,” said he ; “will 
ye take the mate from a friend ?” 

“A gift for a gift,” said Kamal straight ; “a limb 
for the risk of a limb. 


THE BALLAD OF EAST AND WEST. 1 69 

“Thy father has sent his son to me, I’ll send my 
son to him!” 

With that he whistled his only son, that dropped 
from a mountain-crest — 

He trod the ling like a buck in spring, and he 
looked like a lance in rest. 

“Now here is thy master,” Kamal said, “who leads 
a troop of the Guides, 

“And thou must ride at his left side as shield on 
shoulder rides. 

“Till Death or I cut loose the tie, at camp and 
board and bed, 

“Thy life is his — thy fate it is to guard him with 
thy head. 

“So thou must eat the White Queen’s meat, and 
all her foes are thine, 

“And thou must harry thy father’s hold for the 
peace of the Border-line, 

“And thou must make a trooper tough and hack 
thy way to power — 

“Belike they will raise thee to Ressaldar when I 
am hanged in Peshawur.” 

They have looked each other between the eyes, 
and there they found no fault, 


170 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Bloocl 
on leavened bread and salt : 

They have taken the Oath of the Brother-in-Blood 
on fire and fresh-cut sod, 

On the hilt and the haft of the Khyber knife, and 
the Wondrous Names of God. 

The Coloners son he rides the mare and Kamal’s 
boy the dun, 

And two have come back to Fort Bukloh where 
there went forth but one. 

And when they drew to the Quarter-Guard, full 
twenty swords flew clear — 

There was not a man but carried his feud with the 
blood of the mountaineer. 

“Ha’ done! ha’ done!” said the Colonel’s son. 
‘Tut up the steel at your sides! 

“Last night ye had struck at a Border thief — to- 
night ’tis a man of the Guides !” 

Oh, East is East, and West is West, and never the 
two shall meet, 

Till Earth and Sky stand presently at God's great 
Judgment Seat ; 

But there is neither East nor West, Border, nor 
Breed, nor Birth, 

When two strong men stand face to face, tho’ they 
come from the ends of the earth. 


THE ARREST OE LIEUTENANT 
GOLIGHTLY. 


“ ‘I’ve forgotten the countersign/ sez 'e. 

‘Oh! You ’ave, ’ave you?’ sez I. 

‘But I’m the Colonel,’ sez ’e. 

‘Oh! You are, are you?’ sez I. ‘Colonel nor no 
Colonel, you waits ’ere till I’m relieved, an’ the Sarjint 
reports on your ugly old mug. Coop!’ sez I. 

An’ s’elp me soul, ’twas the Colonel after all! But I 
was a recruity then.’ ” 

— The Unedited Autobiography of Private Ortheris. 

If there was one thing on which Golightly 
prided himself more than another, it was looking 
like “an Officer and a Gentleman.” He said it was 
for the honor of the Service that he attired him- 
self so elaborately ; but those who knew him best 
said it was just personal vanity. There was no 
harm about Golightly — not an ounce. He recog- 
nized a horse when he saw one, and could do more 
than fill a cantle. He played a very fair game at 
billiards, and was a sound man at the whist-table. 
Everyone liked him ; and nobody ever dreamed of 
171 


172 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


seeing him handcuffed on a station platform as a 
deserter. But this sad thing happened. 

He was going down from Dalhousie, at the end 
of his leave — riding down. He had cut his leave 
as fine as he dared, and wanted to come down in a 
hurry. 

It was fairly warm at Dalhousie, and, knowing 
what to expect below, he descended in a new khaki 
suit — tight fitting — of a delicate olive-green; a 
peacock-blue tie, white collar, and a snowy white 
solah helmet. He prided himself on looking neat 
even when he was riding post. He did look neat, 
and he was so deeply concerned about his appear- 
ance before he started that he quite forgot to take 
anything but some small change with him. He 
left all his notes at the hotel. His servants had 
gone down the road before him, to be ready in 
waiting at Pathankote with a change of gear. 
That was what he called traveling in “light march- 
ing-order.” He was proud of his faculty of or- 
ganization — what we call bundobust. 

Twenty-two miles out of Dalhousie it began to 
rain — not a mere hill-shower but a good, tepid 
monsoonish downpour. Golightly bustled on, 
wishing that he had brought an umbrella. The 


THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. 1 73 

dust on the roads turned into mud, and the pony 
mired a good deal. So did Golightly’s khaki 
gaiters. But he kept on steadily and tried to think 
how pleasant the coolth was. 

His next pony was rather a brute at starting, 
and Golightly’s hands being slippery with the rain, 
contrived to get rid of Golightly at a corner. He 
chased the animal, caught it, and went ahead 
briskly. The spill had not improved his clothes 
or his temper, and he had lost one spur. He kept 
the other one employed. By the time that stage 
was ended, the pony had had as much exercise as 
he wanted and, in spite of the rain, Golightly was 
sweating freely. At the end of another miserable 
half-hour, Golightly found the world disappear 
before his eyes in clammy pulp. The rain had 
turned the pith of his huge and snowy solah-topee 
into an evil-smelling dough, and it had closed on 
his head like a half-opened mushroom. Also the 
green lining was beginning to run. 

Golightly did not say anything worth record- 
ing here. He tore off and squeezed up as much of 
the brim as was in his eyes and ploughed on. The 
back of the helmet was flapping on his neck and 

the sides stuck to his ears, but the leather band and 

12 


174 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


green lining kept things roughly together, so that 
the hat did not actually melt away where it 
flapped. 

Presently the pulp and the green stuff made a 
sort of slimy mildew which ran over Golightly in 
several directions — down his back and bosom for 
choice. The khaki color ran too — it was really 
shockingly bad dye — and sections of Golightly 
were brown, and patches were violet, and contours 
were ochre, and streaks were ruddy red, and 
blotches were nearly white, according to the na- 
ture and peculiarities of the dye. When he took 
out his handkerchief to wipe his face and the green 
of the hat-lining and the purple stuff that had 
soaked through on to his neck from the tie became 
thoroughly mixed, the effect was amazing. 

Near Dhar the rain stopped and the evening sun 
came out and dried him up slightly. It fixed the 
colors, too. Three miles from Pathankote the last 
pony fell dead lame, and Golightly was forced to 
walk. He pushed on into Pathankote to find his 
servants. He did not know then that his khit- 
matgar had stopped by the roadside to get drunk, 
and would come on the next day saying that he 
had sprained his ankle. When he got into Path- 


THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. 1 75 

ankote, he couldn’t find his servants, his boots 
were stiff and ropy with mud, and there were large 
quantities of dirt about his body. The blue tie had 
run as much as the khaki. So he took it off with 
the collar and threw it away. Then he said some- 
thing about servants generally and tried to get a 
peg. He paid eight annas for the drink, and this 
revealed to him that he had only six annas more in 
his pocket — or in the world as he stood at that 
hour. 

He went to the Station-Master to negotiate for 
a first-class ticket to Khasa, where he was sta- 
tioned. The booking-clerk said something to the 
Station-Master, the Station-Master said some- 
thing to the Telegraph Clerk, and the three looked 
at him with curiosity. They asked him to wait 
for half-an-hour, while they telegraphed to Um- 
ritsar for authority. So he waited and four con- 
stables came and grouped themselves picturesquely 
round him. Just as he was preparing to ask them 
to go away, the Station-Master said that he would 
give the Sahib a ticket to Umritsar, if the Sahib 
would kindly come inside the booking-office. Go- 
lightly stepped inside, and the next thing he knew 
was that a constable was attached to each of his 


176 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

legs and arms, while the Station-Master was try- 
ing to cram a mail-bag over his head. 

There was a very fair scuffle all round the book- 
ing-office, and Golightly received a nasty cut over 
his eye through falling against a table. But the 
constables were too much for him, and they and 
the Station-Master handcuffed him securely. As 
soon as the mail-bag was slipped, he began ex- 
pressing his opinions, and the head-constable 
said : — “Without doubt this is the soldier-Eng- 
lishman we required. Listen to' the abuse !” 
Then Golightly asked the Station-Master what 
the this and the that the proceedings meant. The 
Station-Master told him he was “Private John 

Binkle of the Regiment, 5 ft. 9 in., fair hair, 

grey eyes, and a dissipated appearance, no marks 
on the body,” who had deserted a fortnight ago. 
Golightly began explaining at great length : and 
the more he explained the less the Station-Master 
believed him. He said that no Lieutenant could 
look such a ruffian as did Golightly, and that his 
instructions were to send his capture under proper 
escort to Umritsar. Golightly was feeling very 
damp and uncomfortable, and the language he 
used was not fit for publication, even in an expur- 


THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. 177 

gated form. The four constables saw him safe to 
Umritsar in an “intermediate” compartment, and 
he spent the four-hour journey in abusing them as 
fluently as his knowledge of the vernaculars al- 
lowed. 

At Umritsar he was bundled out on the plat- 
form into the arms of a Corporal and two men of 

the Regiment. Golightly drew himself up 

and tried to carry off matters jauntily. He did 
not feel too jaunty in handcuffs, with four con- 
stables behind him, and the blood from the cut on 
his forehead stiffening on, his left cheek. The 
Corporal was not jocular either. Golightly got as 
far as : — “This is a very absurd mistake, my men,” 
when the Corporal told him to “stow his lip” and 
come along. Golightly did not want to come 
along. He desired to stop and explain. He ex- 
plained very well indeed, until the Corporal cut in 
with: — “You a orficer! It’s the like o’ you as 
brings disgrace on the likes of us. Bloomin’ fine 
orficer you are! I know your regiment. The 
Rogue’s March is the quickstep where you come 
from. You’re a black shame to the Service.” 

Golightly kept his temper, and began explaining- 
all over again from the beginning. Then he was 


178 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


marched out of the rain into the refreshment-room 
and told not to make a qualified fool of himself. 
The men were going to run him up to Fort Go- 
vindghar. Aifld ‘‘running up” is a performance 
almost as undignified as the Frog March. 

Golightly was nearly hysterical with rage and 
the chill and the mistake and the handcuffs and the 
headache that the cut on his forehead had given 
him. He really laid himself out to express what 
was in his mind. When he had quite finished and 
his throat was feeling dry, one of the men said : — 
“I’ve ’eard a few beggars in the click blind, stiff 
and crack on a bit ; but Fve never ’eard any one to 
touch this ’ere ‘officer.’ ” They were not angry 
with him. They rather admired him. They had 
some beer at the refreshment-room, and offered 
Golightly some too, because he had “swore 
won’erful.” They asked him to tell them all about 
the adventures of Private John Binkle while he 
was loose on the country-side ; and that made Go- 
lightly wilder than ever. If he had kept his wits 
about him he would have kept quiet until an offi- 
cer came ; but he attempted tO' run. 

Now the butt of a Martini in the small of your 
back hurts a great deal, and rotten, rain-soaked 


THE ARREST OF LIEUTENANT GOLIGHTLY. 1 79 

khaki tears easily when two men are yerking at 
your collar. 

Golightly rose from the floor feeling very sick 
and giddy, with his shirt ripped open all down 
his breast and nearly all down his back. He 
yielded to his luck, and at that point the down- 
train from Lahore came in, carrying one of Go- 
lightly’s Majors. 

This is the Major’s evidence in full : — 

“There was the sound of a scuffle in the second- 
class refreshment-room, so I went in and saw the 
most villainous loafer that I ever set eyes on. His 
boots and breeches were plastered with mud and 
beer-stains. He wore a muddy-white dunghill 
sort of thing on his head, and it hung down in 
slips on his shoulders which were a good deal 
scratched. He was half in and half out of a shirt 
as nearly in two pieces as it could be, and he was 
begging* the guard to look at the name on the tail 
of it. As he had rucked the shirt all over his head, 
I couldn’t at first see who he was, but I fancied 
that he was a man in the first stage of D. T. from 
the way he swore while he wrestled with his rags. 
When he turned round, and I had made allow- 
ances for a lump as big as a pork-pie over one eye, 


i8o 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


and some green war-paint on the face, and some 
violet stripes round the neck, I saw that it was 
Golightly. He was very glad to see me,” said the 
Major, “and he hoped I would not tell the Mess 
about it. I didn’t, but you can, if you like, now 
that Golightly has gone Home.” 

Golightly spent the greater part of that summer 
in trying to get the Corporal and the two soldiers 
tried by Court-Martial for arresting an “officer 
and a gentleman.” They were, of course, very 
sorry for their error. But the tale leaked into the 
regimental canteen, and thence ran about the 
Province. 


THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 


It was not in the open fight 
We threw away the sword, 

But in the lonely watching 
In the darkness by the ford. 

The waters lapped, the night-wind blew 
Full-armed the Fear was born and grew 
And we were flying ere we knew, 

From panic in the night. 

— Beoni Bar. 

Some people hold that an English Cavalry regi- 
ment cannot run. This is a mistake. I have seen 
four hundred and thirty-seven sabers flying over 
the face of the country in abject terror — have seen 
the best Regiment that ever drew bridle wiped off 
the Army List for the space of two hours. If you 
repeat this tale to the White Hussars they will, in 
all probability, treat you severely. They are not 
proud of the incident. 

You may know the White Hussars by their 
“side/’ which is greater than that of all the Cav- 
alry Regiments on the roster. If this is not a suf- 
ficient mark, you may know them by their old 
181 


1 82 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

brandy. It has been sixty years in the Mess and 
is worth going far to taste. Ask for the “Mc- 
Gaire” old brandy, and see that you get it. If the 
Mess Sergeant thinks that you are uneducated, 
and that the genuine article will be lost on you, he 
will treat you accordingly. He is a good man. 
But, when you are at Mess, you must never talk to 
your hosts about forced marches or long-distance 
rides. The Mess are very sensitive ; and, if they 
think that you are laughing at them, will tell you 
so. 

As the White Hussars say, it was all the Col- 
oners fault. He was a new man, and he ought 
never to have taken the Command. He said that 
the Regiment was not smart enough. This to the 
White Hussars, who knew that they could walk 
round any Horse and through any Guns, and over 
any Foot on the face of the earth! That insult 
was the first cause of offense. 

Then the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse — the 
Drum-Horse of the White Hussars! Perhaps 
you do not see what an unspeakable crime he had 
committed. I will try to make it clear. The soul 
of the Regiment lives in the Drum-Horse who car- 
ries the silver kettle-drums. He is nearly always a 


THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 183 

big piebald Waler. That is a point of honor ; and 
a Regiment will spend anything you please on a 
piebald. He is beyond the ordinary laws of cast- 
ing. His work is very light, and he only manoeu- 
vres at a foot-pace. Wherefore so long as he can 
step out and look handsome, his wellbeing is as- 
sured. He knows more about the Regiment than 
the Adjutant, and could not make a mistake if he 
tried. 

The Drum-Horse of the White Hussars was 
only eighteen years old, and perfectly equal to his 
duties. He had at least six years’ more work in 
him, and carried himself with all the pomp and 
dignity of a Drum-Major of the Guards. The 
Regiment had paid Rs.1200 for him. 

But the Colonel said that he must go, and he 
was cast in due form and replaced by a- washy, bay 
beast, as ugly as a mule, with a ewe-neck, rat-tail, 
and cow-hocks. The Drummer detested that ani- 
mal, and the best of the Band-horses put back 
their ears and showed the whites of their eyes at 
the very sight of him. They knew him for an up- 
start and no gentleman. I fancy that the Colonel’s 
ideas of smartness extended to the Band, and that 
he wanted to make it take part in the regular pa- 


184 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


rade movements. A Cavalry Band is a sacred 
thing. It only turns out for Commanding officers’ 
parades, and the Band Master is one degree more 
important than the Colonel. He is a High Priest 
and the “Keel Row” is his holy song. The “Keel 
Row” is the Cavalry Trot; and the man who has 
never heard that tune rising, high and shrill, 
above the rattle of the Regiment going past the 
saluting-hase, has something yet to hear and un- 
derstand. 

When the Colonel cast the Drum-Horse of the 
White Hussars, there was nearly a mutiny. 

The officers were angry, the Regiment were 
furious, and the Bandsmen swore — like troopers. 
The Drum-Horse was going to be put up tO' auc- 
tion — public auction — to be bought, perhaps, by 
a Parsee and put into a cart ! It was worse than 
exposing the inner life of the Regiment to the 
whole world, or selling the Mess Plate to a Jew — 
a black Jew. 

The Colonel was a mean man and a bully. He 
knew what the Regiment thought about his action ; 
and, when the troopers offered to buy the Drum- 
Horse, he said thatHheir offer was mutinous and 
forbidden by the Regulations. 


THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 185 

But one of the Subalterns — Hogan- Yale, an 
Irishman — bought the Drum-Horse for Rs.i6o at 
the sale, and the Colonel was wroth. Yale pro- 
fessed repentance — he was unnaturally submissive 
— and said that, as he had only made the purchase 
to save the horse from possible ill-treatment and 
starvation, he would now shoot him and end the 
business. This appeared to soothe the Colonel, for 
he wanted the Drum-Horse disposed of. He felt 
that he had made a mistake, and could not of 
course acknowledge it. Meantime, the presence of 
the Drum-Horse was an annoyance to him. 

Yale took to himself a glass of the old brandy, 
three cheroots, and his friend Martyn; and they 
all left the Mess together. Yale and Martyn con- 
ferred for two hours in Yale’s quarters; but only 
the bull terrier who keeps watch over Yale’s boot- 
trees knows what they said. A horse, hooded and 
sheeted to his ears, left Yale’s stables and was 
taken, very unwillingly, into the Civil Lines. 
Yale’s groom went with him. Two men broke 
into the Regimental Theater and took several 
paint-pots and some large scenery-brushes. Then 
night fell over the Cantonments, and there was a 
noise as of a horse kicking his loose box to pieces 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


1 86 

in Yale’s stables. Yale had a big, old, white 
Waler trap-horse. 

The next day was a Thursday, and the men, 
hearing that Yale was going to. shoot the Drum- 
Horse in the evening, determined to give the beast 
a regular regimental funeral — a finer one than 
they would have given the Colonel had he died 
just then. They got a bullock-cart and some sack- 
ing, and mounds and mounds of roses, and the 
body, under sacking, was carried out to the place 
where the anthrax cases were cremated; two- 
thirds of the Regiment following. There was no 
Band, but they all sang “The Place where the old 
Horse died” as something respectful and appro- 
priate to the occasion. When the corpse was 
dumped into the grave and the men began throw- 
ing down armfuls of roses to cover it, the Farrier- 
Sergeant ripped out an oath and said aloud “Why, 
it ain’t the Drum-Horse any more than it’s me !” 
The Troop Sergeant-Majors asked him whether 
he had left his head in the Canteen. The Farrier- 
Sergeant said that he knew the Drum-Horse’s feet 
as well as he knew his own ; but he was silenced 
when he saw the regimental number burnt in on 
the poor stiff, upturned near-fore. 


THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 187 

Thus was the Drum-Horse of the White Hus- 
sars buried ; the Farrier-Sergeant grumbling. The 
sacking that covered the corpse was smeared in 
places with black paint; and the Farrier-Sergeant 
drew attention to this fact. But the Troop-Ser- 
geant-Major of E Troop kicked him severely on 
the shin, and told him that he was undoubtedly 
drunk. 

On the Monday following the burial, the Col- 
onel sought revenge on the White Hussars. Un- 
fortunately, being at that time temporarily in 
Command of the Station, he ordered a Brigade 
field-day. He said that he wished to make the 
Regiment “sweat for their insolence, and he car- 
ried out his notion thoroughly. That Monday 
was one of the hardest days in the memory of the 
White Hussars. They were thrown against a 
skeleton-enemy, and pushed forward, and with- 
drawn, and dismounted, and “scientifically han- 
dled” in every possible fashion over dusty country, 
till they sweated profusely. Their only amuse- 
ment came late in the day when they fell upon the 
battery of Horse Artillery and chased it for two 
miles. This was a personal question, and most of 
the troopers had money on the event ; the Gunners 


1 88 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

saying openly that they had the legs of the White 
Hussars. They were wrong. A march-past con- 
cluded the campaign, and when the Regiment got 
back to their Lines, the men were coated with dirt 
from spur to chin-strap. 

The White Hussars have one great and peculiar 
privilege. They won it at Fontenoy, I think. 

Many Regiments possess special rights such as 
wearing collars with undress uniforms, or a bow 
of riband between the shoulders, or red and white 
roses in their helmets on certain days of the year. 
Some rights are connected with regimental saints, 
and some with regimental successes. All are val- 
ued highly ; but none so highly as the right of the 
White Hussars to have the Band playing when 
their horses are being watered in the Lines. Only 
one tune is played, and that tune never varies. I 
don’t know its real name, but the White Hussars 
call it, “Take me to London again.” It sounds 
very pretty. The Regiment would sooner be 
struck off the roster than forego their distinction. 

After the “dismiss” was sounded, the officers 
rode off home to prepare for stables ; and the men 
filed into the lines riding easy. That is to say, 
they opened their tight buttons, shifted their hel- 


THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 189 

mets, and began to joke or to swear as the humor 
took them ; the more careful slipping off and eas- 
ing girths and curbs. A good trooper values his 
mount exactly as much as he values himself, and 
believes, or should believe, that the two together 
are irresistible where women or men, girls or 
guns, are concerned. 

Then the Orderly-Officer gave the order, 
“Water horses,” and the Regiment loafed off to 
the squadron troughs which were in rear of the 
stables and between these and the barracks. There 
were four huge troughs, one for each squadron, 
arranged en echelon , so that the whole Regiment 
could water in ten minutes if it liked. But it lin- 
gered for seventeen, as a rule, while the Band 
played. 

The Band struck up as the squadrons filed off 
to the troughs, and the men slipped their feet out 
of the stirrups and chaffed each other. The sun 
was just setting in a big, hot bed of red cloud, and 
the road to the Civil Lines seemed to run straight 
into the sun’s eye. There was a little dot on the 
road. It grew and grew till it showed as a horse, 
with a sort of gridiron-thing on his back. The red 

cloud glared through the bars of the gridiron. 

13 


I9O KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

Some of the troopers shaded their eyes with their 
hands and said — “What the mischief 'as that there 
’orse got on ’im ?” 

In another minute they heard a neigh that every 
soul — horse and man — in the Regiment knew, and 
saw, heading straight towards the Band, the dead 
Drum-Horse of the White Hussars ! 

On his withers banged and bumped the kettle- 
drums draped in crape, and on his back, very stiff 
and soldierly, sat a bareheaded skeleton. 

The Band stopped playing, and, for a moment, 
there was a hush. 

Then some one in E Troop — men said it was 
the Troop-Sergeant-Major — swung his horse 
round and yelled. No one can account exactly for 
what happened afterwards; but it seems that, at 
least, one man in each troop set an example of 
panic, and the rest followed like sheep. The 
horses that had barely put their muzzles into the 
troughs reared and capered; but as soon as the 
Band broke, which it did when the ghost of the 
Drum-Horse was about a furlong distant, all 
hooves followed suit, and the clatter of the stam- 
pede — quite different from the orderly throb and 
roar of a movement on parade, or the rough 



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THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 191 

horse-play of watering in camp — made them only 
more terrified. They felt that the men on their 
backs were afraid of something. When horses 
once know that, all is over except the butchery. 

Troop after troop turned from the troughs and 
ran — anywhere and everywhere — like spilt quick- 
silver. It was a most extraordinary spectacle, for 
men and horses were in all stages of easiness, and 
the carbine-buckets flopping against their sides 
urged the horses on. Men were shouting and 
cursing, and trying to pull clear of the Band which 
was being chased by the Drum-Horse whose rider 
had fallen forward and seemed to be spurring for 
a wager. 

The Colonel had gone over to the Mess for a 
drink. Most of the officers were with him, and 
the Subaltern of the Day was preparing to go 
down to the lines, and receive the watering re- 
ports from the Troop-Sergeant-Majors. When 
“Take me to London again” stopped after twenty 
bars, every one in the Mess said, “What on earth 
has happened?” A minute later, they heard un- 
military noises, and saw, far across the plain, the 
White Hussars, scattered and broken, and flying. 

The Colonel was speechless with rage, for he 


192 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


thought that the Regiment had risen against him 
or was unanimously drunk. The Band, a disor- 
ganized mob, tore past, and at its heels labored the 
Drum-Horse — the dead and buried Drum-Horse 
— with the jolting, clattering skeleton. Hogan- 
Yale whispered softly to Martyn — “No wire will 
stand that treatment,” and the Band, which had 
doubled like a hare, came back again. But the rest 
of the Regiment was gone, was rioting all over 
the Province, for the dusk had shut in and each 
man was howling to his neighbor that the Drum- 
Horse was on his flank. Troop-horses are far too 
tenderly treated as a rule. They can, on emergen- 
cies, do a great deal, even with seventeen stone on 
their backs. As the troopers found out. 

How long this panic lasted I cannot say. I be- 
lieve that when the moon rose the men saw they 
had nothing to fear, and, by twos and threes and 
half troops, crept back into Cantonments very 
much ashamed of themselves. Meantime, the 
Drum-Horse, disgusted at his treatment by old 
friends, pulled up, wheeled round, and trotted up 
to the Mess verandah-steps for bread. No> one 
liked to run ; but m> one cared to go forward till 
the Colonel made a movement and laid hold of the 


THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. I93 

skeleton’s foot. The Band had halted some dis- 
tance away, and now came back slowly. The Col- 
onel called it, individually and collectively, every 
evil name that occurred to him at the time ; for he 
had set his hand on the bosom of the Drum-Horse 
and found flesh and blood. Then he beat the ket- 
tle-drums with his clenched fist, and discovered 
that they were but made of silvered paper and 
bamboo. Next, still swearing, he tried to drag the 
skeleton out of the saddle, but found that it had 
been wired into the cantle. The sight of the Col- 
onel, with his arms round the skeleton’s pelvis and 
his knee in the old Drum-Horse’s stomach, was 
striking. Not to say amusing. He worried the 
thing off in a minute or two, and threw it down 
on the ground, saying to the Band — “Here, you 
curs, that’s what you’re afraid of.” The skeleton 
did not look pretty in the twilight. The Band- 
Sergeant seemed to recognize it for he began to 
chuckle and choke. “Shall I take it away, sir?” 
said the Band-Sergeant. “Yes,” said the Colonel, 
“take it and yourselves !” 

The Band-Sergeant saluted, hoisted the skele- 
ton across his saddle-bow, and led off to the 
stables. Then the Colonel began to make inquiries 


194 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


for the rest of the Regiment, and the language he 
used was wonderful. He would disband the Regi- 
ment — he would court-martial every soul in it — he 
would not command such a set of rabble, and so 
on, and so on. As the men dropped in, his lan- 
guage grew wilder, until at last it exceeded the ut- 
most limits of free speech allowed even to a Col- 
onel of Horse. 

Martyn took Hogan- Yale aside and suggested 
compulsory retirement from the Service as a ne- 
cessity when all was discovered. Martyn was the 
weaker man of the two. Hogan-Yale put up his 
eyebrows and remarked, firstly, that he was the 
son of a Lord, and, secondly, that he was as inno- 
cent as the babe unborn of the theatrical resurrec- 
tion of the Drum-Horse. 

“My instructions,” said Yale, with a singularly 
sweet smile, “were that the Drum-Horse should 
be sent back as impressively as possible. I ask 
you, am I responsible if a mule-headed friend 
sends him back in such a manner as to disturb the 
peace of mind of a regiment of Her Majesty's 
Cavalry?” 

Martyn said, “You are a great man, and will in 


THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. I95 

time become a General ; but I’d give my chance of 
a troop to be safe out of this affair.’’ 

Providence saved Martyn and Hogan- Yale. 
The Second-in-Command led the Colonel away to 
the little curtained alcove wherein the Subalterns 
of the White Hussars were accustomed to play 
poker of nights; and there, after many oaths on 
the Colonel’s part, they talked together in low 
tones. I fancy that the Second-in-Command must 
have represented the scare as the work of some 
trooper whom it would be hopeless to detect ; and 
I know that he dwelt upon the sin and the shame 
of making a public laughing-stock of the scare. 

“They will call us,” said the Second-in-Com- 
mand, who had really a fine imagination — “they 
will call us the ‘Fly-by-Nights ;’ they will call us 
the ‘Ghost Hunters ;’ they will nickname us from 
one end of the Army List to the other. All the 
explanation in the world won’t make outsiders un- 
derstand that the officers were away when the 
panic began. For the honor of the Regiment and 
for your own sake keep this thing quiet.” 

The Colonel was so exhausted with anger that 
soothing him down was not so difficult as might be 
imagined. He was made to see, gently and by de- 


196 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


grees, that it was obviously impossible to court- 
martial the whole Regiment and equally impos- 
sible to proceed against any subaltern who, in his 
belief, had any concern in the hoax. 

“But the beast’s alive ! He’s never been shot at 
all !” shouted the Colonel. “It’s flat flagrant dis- 
obedience! I’ve known a man broke for less. 
They’re mocking me, I tell you, Mutman ! They’re 
mocking me!” 

Once more, the Second-in-Command set him- 
self to soothe the Colonel, and wrestled with him 
for half an hour. At the end of that time the Reg- 
imental Sergeant-Major reported himself. The 
situation was rather novel to him ; but he was not 
a man to be put out by circumstances. He saluted 
and said, “Regiment all come back, Sir.” Then, 
to propitiate the Colonel — “An’ none of the ’orses 
any worse, Sir.” 

The Colonel only snorted and answered — 
“You’d better tuck the men into their cots, then, 
and see that they don’t wake up and cry in the 
night.” The Sergeant withdrew. 

His little stroke of humor pleased the Colonel, 
and, further, he felt slightly ashamed of the lan- 
guage he had been using. The Second-in-Com- 


THE ROUT OF THE WHITE HUSSARS. 197 

mand worried him again, and the two sat talking 
far into the night. 

Next day but one, there was a Commanding 
Officer’s parade, and the Colonel harangued the 
White Hussars vigorously. The pith of his speech 
was that, since the Drum-Horse in his old age had 
proved himself capable of cutting up the whole 
Regiment, he should return to his post of pride at 
the head of the Band, but the Regiment were a 
set of ruffians with bad consciences. 

The White Hussars shouted, and threw every- 
thing movable about them into the air, and when 
the parade was over, they cheered the Colonel till 
they couldn’t speak. No cheers were put up for 
Lieutenant Hogan- Yale, who smiled very sweetly 
in the background. 

Said the Second-in-Command to the Colonel, 
unofficially — 

“These little things ensure popularity, and do 
not the least affect discipline.” 

“But I went back on my word,” said the Col- 
onel. 

“Never mind,” said the Second-in-Command. 
“The White Hussars will follow you anywhere 


198 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


from to-day. Regiments are just like women. 
They will do anything for trinketry.” 

A week later Hogan- Yale received an extraor- 
dinary letter from some one who signed himself 
“Secretary, Charity and Zeal, 3709, E. C.,” and 
asked for “the return of our skeleton which we 
have reason to believe is in your possession.” 

“Who the deuce is this lunatic who trades in 
bones?” said Hogan-Yale. 

“Beg your pardon, Sir,” said the Band-Ser- 
geant, “but the skeleton is with me, an’ I’ll return 
it if you’ll pay the carriage into the Civil Lines. 
There’s a coffin with it, Sir.” 

Hogan-Yale smiled and handed two rupees to 
the Band-Sergeant, saying, “Write the date on 
the skull, will you?” 

If you doubt this story, and know where to go, 
you can see the date on the skeleton. But don’t 
mention the matter to the White Hussars. 

I happen to know something about it, because I 
prepared the Drum-Horse for his resurrection. 
He did not take kindly to the skeleton at all. 


BIMI. 


The orang-outang in the big iron cage lashed 
to the sheep-pen began the discussion. The night 
was stiflingly hot, and as Hans Breitmann and I 
passed him, dragging our bedding to the fore- 
peak of the steamer, he roused himself and chat- 
tered obscenely. He had been caught somewhere 
in the Malayan Archipelago, and was going to 
England to be exhibited at a shilling a head. For 
four days he had struggled, yelled and wrenched 
at the heavy iron bars of his prison without ceas- 
ing, and had nearly slain a Lascar incautious 
enough to come within reach of the great hairy 
paw. 

“It would be well for you, mine friend, if you 
was a liddle seasick,” said Hans Breitmann, paus- 
ing by the cage. “You haf too much Ego in your 
Cosmos.’’ 

The orang-outang’s arm slid out negligently 
from between the bars. No one would have be- 
lieved that it would make a sudden snake-like rush 


199 


200 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


at the German’s breast. The thin silk of the 
sleeping-suit tore out: Hans stepped back un- 
concernedly, to pluck a banana from a bunch 
hanging close to one of the boats. 

“Too much Ego,” said he, peeling the fruit and 
offering it to the caged devil, who was rending the 
silk to tatters. 

Then we laid out our bedding in the bows, 
among the sleeping Lascars, to catch any breeze 
that the pace of the ship might give us. The sea 
was like smoky oil, except where it turned to fire 
under our forefoot and whirled back into the dark 
in smears of dull flame. There was a thunder- 
storm some miles away ; we could see the glimmer 
of the lightning. The ship’s cow, distressed by 
the heat and the smell of the ape-beast in the cage, 
lowed unhappily from time to time in exactly the 
same key as the lookout man at the bows answered 
the hourly call from the bridge. The trampling 
tune of the engines was very distinct, and the jar- 
ring of the ash-lift, as it was tipped into the sea, 
hurt the procession of hushed noise. Hans lay 
down by my side and lighted a good-night cigar. 
This was naturally the beginning of conversation. 
He owned a voice as soothing as the wash of the 


BIMI. 


201 


sea, and stores of experiences as vast as the sea it- 
self ; for his business in life was to wander up and 
down the world, collecting orchids and wild 
beasts and ethnological specimens for German and 
American dealers. I watched the glowing end of 
his cigar wax and wane in the gloom, as the sen- 
tences rose and fell, till I was nearly asleep. The 
orang-outang, troubled by some dream of the for- 
ests of his freedom, began to yell like a soul in 
purgatory, and to wrench madly at the bars of the 
cage. 

“If he was out now dere would not be much of 
us left hereabouts,” said Hans, lazily. “He 
screams good. See, now, how I shall tame him 
when he stops himself.” 

There was a pause in the outcry, and from 
Hans’ mouth came an imitation of a snake’s hiss, 
so perfect that I almost sprung to my feet. The 
sustained murderous sound ran along the deck, 
and the wrenching at the bars ceased. The orang- 
outang was quaking in an ecstasy of pure terror. 

“Dot stop him,” said Hans. “I learned dot 
trick in Mogoung Tanjong when I was collecting 
liddle monkeys for some peoples in Berlin. Efery 
one in der world is afraid of der monkeys — ex- 


202 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


cept der snake. So I blay snake against monkey, 
and he keep quite still. Dere was too much Ego 
in his Cosmos. Dot is der soul-custom of mon- 
keys. Are you asleep, or will you listen, and I 
will tell a dale dot you shall not pelief ?” 

“There’s no tale in the wide world that I can’t 
believe,” I said. 

“If you have learned pelief you haf learned 
somedings. Now I shall try your pelief. Good! 
When I was collecting dose liddle monkeys — it 
was in ’79 or ’80, und I was in der islands of der 
Archipelago — over dere in der dark” — he pointed 
southward to New Guinea generally — “Mein 
Gott! I would sooner collect life red devils than 
liddle monkeys. When dey do not bite off your 
thumbs dey are always dying from nostalgia — 
home-sick — for dey haf der imperfect soul, which 
is midway arrested in defelopment — und too much 
Ego. I was dere for nearly a year, und dere I 
found a man dot was called Bertran. He was a 
Frenchman, und he was a goot man — naturalist 
to the bone. Dey said he was an escaped convict, 
but he was a naturalist, und dot was enough for 
me. He would call all der life beasts from der 
forest, und dey would come. I said he was St. 


BIMI. 


203 


Francis of Assisi in a new dransmigration pro- 
duced, und he laughed und said he haf never 
preach to der fishes. He sold dem for tripang — 
beche-de-mer. 

“Und dot man, who was king of beasts-tamer 
men, he had in der house shush such anoder as 
dot devil-animal in der cage — a great orang- 
outang dot thought he was a man. He haf found 
him when he was a child — der orang-outang — 
und he was child and brother and opera comique 
all round to Bertran. He had his room in dot 
house — not a cage, but a room — mit a bed and 
sheets, and he would go to bed and get up in der 
morning and smoke his cigar und eat his dinner 
mit Bertran, und walk mit him hand-in-hand, 
which was most horrible. Herr Gott ! I haf seen 
dot beast throw himself back in his chair und 
laugh when Bertran haf made fun of me. He 
was not a beast ; he was a man, und he talked to 
Bertran, und Bertran comprehended, for I have 
seen dem. Und he was always politeful to me 
except when I talk too long to Bertran und say 
nodings at all to him. Den he would pull me 
away — dis great, dark devil, mit his enormous 
paws — shush as if I was a child. He was not a 


204 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

beast, he was a man. Dis I saw pefore I know 
him three months, und Bertran he haf saw the 
same ; and Bimi, der orang-outang, haf understood 
us both, mit his cigar between his big-dog teeth 
und der blue gum. 

“I was dere a year, dere und at dere oder isl- 
ands — somedimes for monkeys and somedimes for 
butterflies und orchits. One time Bertran says to 
me dot he will be married, pecause he haf found 
a girl dot was goot, and he inquire if this marry- 
ing idea was right. I would not say, pecause it 
was not me dot was going to be married. Den 
he go off courting der girl — she was a half-caste 
French girl — very pretty. Haf you got a new 
light for my cigar? Oof! Very pretty. Only I 
say : ‘Haf you thought of Bimi ? If he pulls me 
away when I talk to you, what will he do to your 
wife? He will pull her in pieces. If I was you, 
Bertran, I would gif my wife for wedding present 
der stuff figure of Bimi.’ By dot time I had 
learned somedings about der monkey peoples. 
‘Shoot him?’ says Bertran. ‘He is your beast,’ 
I said; ‘if he was mine he would be shot now.’ 

“Den I felt at der back of my neck der fingers 
of Bimi. Mein Gott! I tell you dot he talked 


BIMI. 


205 


through dose fingers. It was der deaf-and-dumb 
alphabet all gomplete. He slide his hairy arm 
round my neck, and he tilt up my chin und look 
into my face, shust to see if I understood his talk 
so well as he understood mine. 

“ ‘See now dere!’ says Bertran, ‘und you would 
shoot him while he is cuddling you ? Dot is der 
Teuton ingrate!’ 

“But 1 knew dot I had made Bimi a life’s en- 
emy, pecause his fingers haf talk murder through 
the back of my neck. Next dime I see Bimi dere 
was a pistol in my belt, und he touch it once, and 
I open der breech to show him it was loaded. He 
haf seen der liddle monkeys killed in der woods, 
and he understood. 

“So Bertran he was married, und he forgot 
clean about Bimi dot was skippin’ alone on der 
beach mit der half of a human soul in his belly. 
I was see him skip, und he took a big bough und 
thrash der sand till he haf made a great hole like 
a grave. So I says to Bertran : ‘For any sakes, 
kill Bimi. He is mad mit der jealousy.’ 

“Bertran haf said : ‘He is not mad at all. He 
haf obey and love my wife, und if she speaks he 

will get her slippers,’ und he looked at his wife 

14 


20 6 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


across der room. She was a very pretty girl. 

“Den I said to him : ‘Dost thou pretend to 
know monkeys und dis beast dot is lashing him- 
self mad upon der sands, pecause you do not talk 
to him ? Shoot him when he comes to der house, 
for he haf der light in his eyes dot means killing 
— und killing.’ Bimi come to der house, but dere 
was no light in his eyes. It was all put away, 
cunning — so cunning — und he fetch der girl her 
slippers, und Bertran turn to me und say : ‘Dost 
thou know him in nine months more than I haf 
known him in twelve years? Shall a child stab 
his fader ? I have fed him, und he was my child. 
Do not speak this nonsense to my wife or to me 
any more.’ 

“Dot next day Bertran came to my house to 
help me make some wood cases for der specimens, 
und he tell me dot he haf left his wife a liddle while 
mit Bimi in der garden. Den I finish my cases 
quick, und I say : ‘Let us go to your house und get 
a trink.’ He laugh und say: ‘Come along, dry 
mans.’ 

“His wife was not in der garden, und Bimi did 
not come when Bertran called. Und his wife did 
not come when he called, und he knocked at her 


BIMI. 


207 


bedroom door und dot was shut tight — locked. 
Den he look at me, und his face was white. I 
broke down der door mit my shoulder, und der 
thatch of der roof was torn into a great hole, und 
der sun came in upon der floor. Haf you ever 
seen paper in der waste-basket, or cards at whist 
on der table scattered? Dere was no wife dot 
could be seen. I tell you dere was noddings in 
dot room dot might be a woman. Dere was stuff 
on der floor, und dot was all. I looked at dese 
things und I was very sick; but Bertran looked 
a liddle longer at what was upon the floor und der 
walls, und der hole in der thatch. Den he pegan 
to laugh, soft and low, und I knew und thank Got 
dot he was mad. He nefer cried, he nefer prayed. 
He stood still in der doorway und laugh to him- 
self. Den he said : ‘She haf locked herself in dis 
room, und he haf torn up der thatch. Fi done. 
Dot is so. We will mend der thatch und wait for 
Bimi. He will surely come.’ 

“I tell you we waited ten days in dot house, 
after der room was made into a room again, and 
once or twice we saw Bimi cornin’ a liddle way 
from der woods. He was afraid pecause he haf 
done wrong. Bertran called him when he was 


208 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


come to look on the tenth day, und Bimi come 
skipping along der beach und making noises, mit 
a long piece of black hair in his hands. Den 
Bertran laugh and say, ‘Ft done!’ shust as if it 
was a glass broken upon der table ; und Bimi come 
nearer, und Bertran was honey-sweet in his voice 
and laughed to himself. For three days he made 
love to Bimi, pecause Bimi would not let himself 
be touched. Den Bimi come to dinner at der same 
table mit us, und der hair on his hands was all 
black und thick mit — mit what had dried on his 
hands. Bertran gave him sangaree till Bimi was 
drunk and stupid, und den” — 

Hans paused to puff at his cigar. 

“And then?” said I. 

“Und den Bertran kill him with his hands, und 
I go for a walk upon der beach. It was Bertran’s 
own piziness. When I come back der ape he was 
dead, und Bertran he was dying abofe him; but 
still he laughed a liddle und low, and he was quite 
content. Now you know der formula of der 
strength of der orang-outang — it is more as seven 
to one in relation to man. But Bertran, he half 
killed Bimi mit sooch dings as Gott gif him. Dot 
was der miracle.” 


BIMI. 


209 


The infernal clamor in the cage recommenced. 
“Aha! Dot friend of ours haf still too much Ego 
in his Cosmos. Be quiet, thou!” 

Hans hissed long and venomously. We could 
hear the great beast quaking in his cage. 

“But why in the world didn’t you help Bertran 
instead of letting him be killed ?” I asked. 

“My friend,” said Hans, composedly stretching 
himself to slumber, “it was not nice even to mine- 
self dot I should lif after I had seen dot room wit 
der hole in der thatch. Und Bertran, he was her 
husband. Goot-night, und sleep well.” 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


Once upon a time there was a king who lived 
on the road to Thibet, very many miles in the 
Himalaya Mountains. His kingdom was 11,000 
feet above the sea, and exactly four miles square, 
but most of the miles stood on end, owing to the 
nature of the country. His revenues were rather 
less than £400 yearly, and they were expended on 
the maintenance of one elephant and a standing 
army of five men. He was tributary to the In- 
dian government, who allowed him certain sums 
for keeping a section of the Himalaya-Thibet road 
in repair. He further increased his revenues by 
selling timber to the railway companies, for he 
would cut the great deodar trees in his own forest 
and they fell thundering into the Sutlej River 
and were swept down to the Plains, 300 miles 
away, and became railway ties. Now and again 
this king, whose name does not matter, would 
mount a ring-streaked horse and ride scores of 
miles to Simlatown to confer with the lieutenant- 
governor on matters of state, or assure the vice- 
210 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


2 II 


roy that his sword was at the service of the queen- 
empress. Then the viceroy wouid cause a ruffle 
of drums to be sounded and the ring-streaked 
horse and the cavalry of the state — two men in 
tatters — and the herald who' bore the Silver Stick 
before the king would trot back to their own place, 
which was between the tail of a heaven-climbing 
glacier and a dark birch forest. 

Now, from such a king, always remembering 
that he possessed one veritable elephant and could 
count his descent for 1,200 years, I expected, 
when it was my fate to wander through his do- 
minions, no more than mere license to live. 

The night had closed in rain, and rolling clouds 
blotted out the lights of the villages in the valley. 
Forty miles away, untouched by cloud or storm, 
the white shoulder of Dongo Pa — the Mountain 
of the Council of the Gods — upheld the evening 
star. The monkeys sung sorrowfully to each 
other as they hunted for dry roots in the fern- 
draped trees, and the last puff of the day-wind 
brought from the unseen villages the scent of 
damp wood smoke, hot cakes, dripping under- 
growth, and rotting pine-cones. That smell is the 
true smell of the Himalayas, and if it once gets 


212 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


into the blood of a man he will, at the last, forget- 
ting everything else, return to the Hills to die. 
The clouds closed and the smell went away, and 
there remained nothing in all the world except 
chilling white mists and the boom of the Sutlej 
River. 

A fat-tailed sheep, who did not want to die, 
bleated lamentably at my tent-door. He was 
scuffling with the prime minister and the director- 
general of public education, and he was a royal 
gift to me and my camp servants. I expressed my 
thanks suitably and inquired if I might have 
audience of the king. The prime minister re- 
adjusted his turban — it had fallen off in the strug- 
gle — and assured me that the king would be very 
pleased to see me. Therefore I dispatched two 
bottles as a foretaste, and when the sheep had en- 
tered upon another incarnation, climbed up to the 
king’s palace through the wet. He had sent his 
army to escort me, but it stayed to talk with my 
cook. Soldiers are very much alike all the world 
over. 

The palace was a four-roomed, whitewashed 
mud-and-timber house, the finest in all the Hills 
for a day’s journey. The king was dressed in a 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


213 


purple velvet jacket, white muslin trousers, and 
a saffron-yellow turban of price. He gave me 
audience in a little carpeted room opening off 
the palace court-yard, which was occupied by the 
elephant of state. The great beast was sheeted 
and anchored from trunk to tail, and the curve of 
his back stood out against the sky line. 

The prime minister and the director-general of 
public instruction were present to introduce me; 
but all the court had been dismissed lest the two 
bottles aforesaid should corrupt their morals. The 
king cast a wreath of heavy, scented flowers round 
my neck as I bowed, and inquired how my hon- 
ored presence had the felicity to be. I said that 
through seeing his auspicious countenance the 
mists of the night had turned into sunshine, and 
that by reason of his beneficent sheep his good 
deeds would be remembered by the gods. He said 
that since I had set my magnificent foot in his 
kingdom the crops would probably yield seventy 
per cent more than the average. I said that the 
fame of the king had reached to the four corners 
of the earth, and that the nations gnashed their 
teeth when they heard daily of the glory of his 
realm and the wisdom of his moon-like prime 


214 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


minister and lotus-eyed director-general of public 
education. 

Then we sat down on clean white cushions, and 
I was at the king’s right hand. Three minutes 
later he was telling me that the condition of the 
maize crop was something disgraceful, and that 
the railway companies would not pay him enough 
for his timber. The talk shifted to and fro with 
the bottles. We discussed very many quaint 
things, and the king became confidential on the 
subject of government generally. Most of all he 
dwelt on the shortcomings of one of his subjects, 
who, from what I could gather, had been paralyz- 
ing the executive. 

“In the old days,” said the king, “I could have 
ordered the elephant yonder to trample him to 
death. Now I must e’en send him seventy miles 
across the hills to be tried, and his keep for that 
time would be upon the state. And the elephant 
eats everything.” 

“What be the man’s crimes, Rajah Sahib?” 
said I. 

“Firstly, he is an ‘outlander,’ and no man of 
mine own people. Secondly, since of my favor I 
gave him land upon his coming, he refuses to pay 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


215 


revenue. Am I not the lord of the earth, above 
and below — entitled by right and custom to one- 
eighth of the crop? Yet this devil, establishing 
himself, refuses to pay a single tax * * * 

and he brings a poisonous spawn of babes.” 

“Cast him into jail,” I said. 

“Sahib,” the king answered, shifting a little on 
the cushions, “once and only once in these forty 
years sickness came upon me so that I was not 
able to go abroad. In that hour I made a vow to 
my God that I would never again cut man or wo- 
man from the light of the sun and the air of God, 
for I perceived the nature of the punishment. 
How can I break my vow? Were it only the 
lopping off of a hand or a foot, I should not delay. 
But even that is impossible now that the English 
have rule. One or another of my people” — he 
looked obliquely at the director-general of public 
education — “would at once write a letter to the 
viceroy, and perhaps I should be deprived of that 
ruffle of drums.” 

He unscrewed the mouthpiece of his silver 
water-pipe, fitted a plain amber one, and passed 
the pipe to me. “Not content with refusing rev- 
enue,” he continued, “this outlander refuses also 


2l6 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


to beegar” (this is the corvee or forced labor on 
the roads), “and stirs my people up to the like 
treason. Yet he is, if so he wills, an expert log- 
snatcher. There is none better or bolder among 
my people to clear a block of the river when the 
logs stick fast.” 

“But he worships strange gods,” said the prime 
minister, deferentially. 

“For that I have no concern,” said the king, 
who was as tolerant as Akbar in matters of belief. 
“To each man his own god, and the fire or Mother 
Earth for us at the last. It is the rebellion that 
offends me.” 

“The king has an army,” I suggested. “Has 
not the king burned the man’s house, and left him 
naked to the night dews?” 

“Nay. A hut is a hut, and it holds the life of 
a man. But once I sent my army against him 
when his excuses became wearisome. Of their 
heads he brake three across the top with a stick. 
The other two men ran away. Also the guns 
would not shoot.” 

I had seen the equipment of the infantry. One- 
third of it was an old muzzle-loading fowling- 
piece with ragged rust holes where the nipples 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


217 


should have been ; one-third a wire-bound match- 
lock, with a worm-eaten stock, and one-third a 
four-bore flint duck-gun, without a flint. . 

“But it is to be remembered,” said the king, 
reaching out for the bottle, “that he is a very ex- 
pert log-snatcher and a man of a merry face. 
What shall I do' to him, Sahib?” 

This was interesting. The timid hill-folk -would 
as soon have refused taxes to their king as offer- 
ings to their gods. The rebel must be a man of 
character. 

“If it be the king’s permission,” I said, “I will 
not strike my tents till the third day, and I will 
see this man. The mercy of the king is godlike, 
and rebellion is like unto the sin of witchcraft. 
Moreover, both the bottles, and another, be 
empty.” 

“You have my leave to go,” said the king. 

Next morning the crier went through the state 
proclaiming that there was a log- jam on the river 
and that it behooved all loyal subjects to clear it. 
The people poured down from their villages to the 
moist, warm valley of poppy fields, and the king 
and I went with them. 

Hundreds of dressed deodar logs had caught on 


2 18 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


a snag of rock, and the river was bringing down 
more logs every minute to- complete the blockade. 
The water snarled and wrenched and worried at 
the timber, while the population of the state 
prodded at the nearest logs with poles, in the hope 
of easing the pressure. Then there went up a 
shout of “Namgay Doola! Namgay Doola!” and 
a large, red-haired villager hurried up, stripping 
off his clothes as he ran. 

“That is he. That is the rebel !” said the king. 
“Now will the dam be cleared.” 

“But why has he red hair?” I asked, since red 
hair among hill-folk is as uncommon as blue or 
green. 

“He is an outlander,” said the king. “Well 
done! Oh, well done!” 

Namgay Doola had scrambled on the jam and 
was clawing out the butt of a log with a rude 
sort of a boat-hook. It slid forward slowly, as an 
alligator moves, and three or four others followed 
it. The green water spouted through the gaps. 
Then the villagers howled and shouted and leaped 
among the logs, pulling and pushing the obstinate 
timber, and the red head of Namgay Doola was 
chief among them all. The logs swayed and 



Page 218 

Namgay Doola had scrambled on the jam and was 
clawing out a log with a boat-hook 


■ 



NAMGAY DOOLA. 


219 


chafed and groaned as fresh consignments from 
up-stream battered the now weakening dam. It 
gave way at last in a smother of foam, racing 
butts, bobbing black heads, and a confusion 
indescribable, as the river tossed everything before 
it. I saw the red head go down with the last rem- 
nants of the jam and disappear between the great 
grinding tree trunks. It rose close to the bank, 
and blowing like a grampus, Namgay Doola 
wiped the water out of his eyes and made obeis- 
ance to the king. 

I had time to observe the man closely. The 
virulent redness of his shock head and beard was 
most startling, and in the thicket of hair twinkled 
above high cheek-bones two very merry blue eyes. 
He was indeed an outlander, but yet a Thibetan 
in language, habit and attire. He spoke the 
Lepcha dialect with an indescribable softening of 
the gutturals. It was not so much a lisp as an 
accent. 

“Whence comest thou?” I asked, wondering. 

“From Thibet.” He pointed across the hills 
and grinned. That grin went straight to my 
heart. Mechanically I held out my hand, and 
Namgay Doola took it. No pure Thibetan would 


220 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


have understood the meaning of the gesture. He 
went away to look for his clothes, and as he 
climbed back to his village, I heard a joyous yell 
that seemed unaccountably familiar. It was the 
whooping of Namgay Doola. 

“You see now,” said the king, “why I would 
not kill him. He is a bold man among my logs, 
but,” and he shook his head like a schoolmaster, 
“I know that before long there will be complaints 
of him in the court. Let us return to the palace 
and do justice.” 

It was that king’s custom to judge his subjects 
every day between eleven and three o’clock. I 
heard him do justice equitably on weighty matters 
of trespass, slander, and a little wife-stealing. 
Then his brow clouded and he summoned me. 

“Again it is Namgay Doola,” he said, despair- 
ingly. “Not content with refusing revenue on his 
own part, he has bound half his village by an oath 
to the like treason. Never before has such a thing 
befallen me! Nor are my taxes heavy.” 

A rabbit-faced villager, with a blush-rose stuck 
behind his ear, advanced trembling. He had been 
in Namgay Doola’ s conspiracy, but had told every- 
thing and hoped for the king’s favor. 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


22 1 


“Oh, king!” said I, “if it be the king’s will, let 
this matter stand over till the morning. Only the 
gods can do right in a hurry, and it may be that 
yonder villager has lied.” 

“Nay, for I know the nature of Namgay Doola; 
but since a guest asks, let the matter remain. Wilt 
thou, for my sake, speak harshly to this red- 
headed outlander? He may listen to thee.” 

I made an attempt that very evening, but for the 
life of me I could not keep my countenance. Nam- 
gay Doola grinned so persuasively and began to 
tell me about a big brown bear in a poppy field 
by the river. Would I care to shoot that bear? 
I spoke austerely on the sin of detected conspiracy 
and the certainty of punishment. Namgay Doola’s 
face clouded for a moment. Shortly afterward 
he withdrew from my tent, and I heard him sing- 
ing softly among the pines. The words were 
unintelligible to me, but the tune, like his liquid, 
insinuating speech, seemed the ghost of something 
strangely familiar. 

“Dir hane mard-i-yemen dir 
To weeree ala gee,” 

crooned Namgay Doola again and again, and I 
15 


222 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


racked my brain for that lost tune. It was not till 
after dinner that I discovered some one had cut 
a square foot of velvet from the center of my 
best camera-cloth. This made me so angry that 
I wandered down the valley in the hope of meet- 
ing the big brown bear. I could hear him grunt- 
ing like a discontented pig in the poppy field as I 
waited shoulder deep in the dew-dripping Indian 
corn to catch him after his meal. The moon was 
at full and drew out the scent of the tasseled crop. 
Then I heard the anguished bellow of a Himalay- 
an cow — one of the little black crummies no big- 
ger than Newfoundland dogs. Two shadows that 
looked like a bear and her cub hurried past me. I 
was in the act of firing when I saw that each bore 
a brilliant red head. The lesser animal was trail- 
ing something rope-like that left a dark track on 
the path. They were within six feet of me, and 
the shadow of the moonlight lay velvet-black on 
their faces. Velvet-black was exactly the word, 
for by all the powers of moonlight they were 
masked in the velvet of my camera-cloth. I mar- 
veled, and went to bed. 

Next morning the kingdom was in an uproar. 
Namgay Doola, men said, had gone forth in the 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


223 


night and with a sharp knife had cut off the tail 
of a cow belonging to the rabbit-faced villager 
who had betrayed him. It was sacrilege unspeak- 
able against the holy cow ! The state desired his 
blood, but he had retreated to his hut, barricaded 
the doors and windows with big stones, and de- 
fied the world. 

The king and I and the populace approached the 
hut cautiously. There was no' hope of capturing 
our man without loss of life, for from a hole in 
the wall projected the muzzle of an extremely 
well-cared-for gun — the only gun in the state that 
could shoot. Namgay Doola had narrowly missed 
a villager just before we came up. 

The standing army stood. 

It could do no more, for when it advanced pieces 
of sharp shale flew from the windows. To these 
were added from time to time showers of scalding 
water. We saw red heads bobbing up and down 
within. The family of Namgay Doola were aid- 
ing their sire. Blood-curdling yells of defiance 
were the only answer to our prayers. 

“Never,” said the king, puffing, “has such a 
thing befallen my state. Next year I will cer- 


224 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


tairily buy a little cannon.’’ He looked at me im- 
ploringly. 

“Is there any priest in the kingdom to whom he 
will listen ?” said I, for a light was beginning to 
break upon me. 

“He worships his own god,” said the prime 
minister. “We can but starve him out.” 

“Let the white man approach,” said Namgay 
Doola from within. “All others I will kill. Send 
me the white man.” 

The door was thrown open and I entered the 
smoky interior of a Thibetan hut crammed with 
children. And every child had flaming red hair. 
A fresh-gathered cow’s tail lay on the floor, and 
by its side two pieces of black velvet — my black 
velvet — rudely hacked into the semblance of 
masks. 

“And what is this shame, Namgay Doola?” 1 
asked. 

He grinned more charmingly than ever. “There 
is no shame,” said he. “I did but cut off the tail 
of that man’s cow. He betrayed me. I was 
minded to shoot him, Sahib, but not to death. 
Indeed, not to death ; only in the legs.” 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


22 5 


“And why at all, since it is the custom to pay 
revenue to the king? Why at all?” 

“By the god of my father, I can not tell,” said 
Namgay Doola. 

“And who was thy father?” 

“The same that had this gun.” He showed 
me his weapon, a Tower musket, bearing date 
1832 and the stamp of the Honorable East India 
Company. 

“And thy father’s name?” said I. 

“Timlay Doola,” said he. “At the first, I being- 
then a little child, it is in my mind that he wore a 
red coat.” 

“Of that I have no doubt ; but repeat the name 
of thy father twice or thrice.” 

He obeyed, and I understood whence the 
puzzling accent in his speech came. “Thimla 
Dhula !” said he, excitedly. “To this hour I wor- 
ship his god.” 

“May I see that god?” 

“In a little while — at twilight time.” 

“Rememberest thou aught of thy father’s 
speech ?” 

“It is long ago. But there was one word which 
he said often. Thus, ‘ ’Shun !’ Then I and my 


226 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


brethren stood upon our feet, our hands to our 
sides, thus.” 

“Even so. And what was thy mother?” 

“A woman of the Hills. We be Lepchas of 
Darjiling, but me they call an outlander because 
my hair is as thou seest.” 

The Thibetan woman, his wife, touched him on 
the arm gently. The long parley outside the fort 
had lasted far into the day. It was now close 
upon twilight — the hour of the Angelus. Very 
solemnly the red-headed brats rose from the floor 
and formed a semicircle. Namgay Doola laid his 
gun aside, lighted a little oil-lamp, and set it before 
a recess in the wall. Pulling back a wisp of dirty 
cloth, he revealed a worn brass crucifix leaning 
against the helmet badge oi a long- forgotten East 
India Company’s regiment. “Thus did my 
father,” he said, crossing himself clumsily. The 
wife and children followed suit. Then, all to- 
gether, they struck up the wailing chant that I 
heard on the hill-side : 

“Dir hane mard-i-yemen dir 
To weeree ala gee.” 

I was puzzled no longer. Again and again 
they sung, as if their hearts would break, their 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 


227 


version of the chorus of “The Wearing of the 
Green” : 


“They’re hanging men and women, too, 

For the wearing of the green.” 

A diabolical inspiration came to me. One of 
the brats, a boy about eight years old — could he 
have been in the fields last night ? — was watching 
me as he sung. I pulled out a rupee, held the coin 
between finger and thumb, and looked — only 
looked — at the gun leaning against the wall. A 
grin of brilliant and perfect comprehension over- 
spread his porringer-like face. Never for an in- 
stant stopping the song, he held out his hand for 
the money, and then slid the gun to my hand. I 
might have shot Namgay Doola dead as he 
chanted, but I was satisfied. The inevitable blood- 
instinct held true. Namgay Doola drew the cur- 
tain across the recess. Angelus was over. 

“Thus my father sung. There was much more, 
but I have forgotten, and I do not know the pur- 
port of even these words, but it may be that the 
god will understand. I am not of this people, and 
I will not pay revenue.” 

“And why ?” 


228 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Again that soul-compelling grin. “What occu- 
pation would be to me between crop and crop? 
It is better than scaring bears. But these people 
do not understand/’ 

He picked the masks off the floor and looked in 
my face as simply as a child. 

“By what road didst thou attain knowledge to 
makes those deviltries?” I said, pointing. 

“I can not tell. I am but a Lepcha of Darjiling, 
and yet the stuff — ” 

“Which thou has stolen,” said I. 

“Nay, surely. Did I steal? I desired it so. 
The stuff — the stuff. What else should I have 
done with the stuff.” He twisted the velvet be- 
tween his fingers. 

“But the sin of maiming the cow — consider 
that.” 

“Oh, Sahib, the man betrayed me ; the heifer’s 
tail waved in the moonlight, and I had my knife. 
What else should I have done? The tail came off 
ere I was aware. Sahib, thou knowest more than 
I.” 

“That is true,” said I. “Stay within the door. 
I go to speak to the king.” The population of 


NAMGAY DOOLA. 22 9 

the state were ranged on the hill-side. I went 
forth and spoke. 

“Oh, king,” said I, “touching this man, there 
be two courses open to thy wisdom. Thou canst 
either hang him from a tree — he and his brood — 
till there remains no hair that is red within thy 
land.” 

“Nay,” said the king. “Why should I hurt the 
little children?” 

They had poured out of the hut and were mak- 
ing plump obeisances to' everybody. Namgay 
Doola waited at the door with his gun across his 
arm. 

“Or thou canst, discarding their impiety of the 
cow-maiming, raise him to honor in thy army. 
He comes of a race that will not pay revenue. A 
red flame is in his blood which comes out at the 
top of his head in that glowing hair. Make him 
chief of thy army. Give him honor as may befall 
and full allowance of work, but look to it, oh, 
king, that neither he nor his hold a foot of earth 
from thee henceforward. Feed him with words 
and favor, and also liquor from certain bottles that 
thou knowest of, and he will be a bulwark of de- 
fense. But deny him even a tuftlet of grass for 


230 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


his own. This is the nature that Goa has given 
him. Moreover, he has brethren — ” 

The state groaned unanimously. 

“But if his brethren come they will surely fight 
with each other till they die; or else the one will 
always give information concerning the other. 
Shall he be of thy army, oh, king? Choose.” 

The king bowed his head, and I said : “Come 
forth, Namgay Doola, and command the king’s 
army. Thy name shall no more be Namgay in 
the mouths of men, but Patsay Doola, for, as thou 
hast truly said, I know.” 

Then Namgay Doola, new-christened Patsay 
Doola, son of Timlay Doola — which is Tim Doo- 
lan — clasped the king’s feet, cuffed the standing 
army, and hurried in an agony of contrition from 
temple to temple making offerings for the sin of 
the cattle-maiming. 

And the king was so pleased with my perspi- 
cacity that he offered to sell me a village for £20 
sterling. But I buy no village in the Himalayas 
so long as one red head flares between the tail of 
the heaven-climbing glacier and the dark birch 
forest. 

I know that breed. 


THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 


See the pale martyr with his shirt on fire. 

— Printer'' s Error. 

They tell the tale even now among the sal 
groves of the Berbulda Hill, and for corrobora- 
tion point to the roofless and windowless mission- 
house. The great God Dungara, the God of 
Things as They Are, most terrible, one-eyed, 
bearing the red elephant tusk, did it all; and he 
who refuses to believe in Dungara will assuredly 
be smitten by the madness of Yat — the madness 
that fell upon the sons and the daughters of the 
Buria Kol when they turned aside from Dungara 
and put on clothes. So says Athon Daze, who 
is High Priest of the Shrine and Warden of the 
Red Elephant tusk. But if you ask the assistant 
collector and agent in charge of the Buria Kol, he 
will laugh — not because he bears any malice 
against missions, but because he himself saw the 
vengeance of Dungara executed upon the spiritual 
children of the Rev. Justus Krenk, pastor of the 
231 


232 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Tubingen Mission, and upon Lotta, his virtuous 
wife. 

Yet if ever a man merited good treatment of the 
gods it was the Reverend Justus, one time of Heil- 
delberg, who, on the faith of a call, went into the 
wilderness and took the blonde, blue-eyed Lotta 
with him. “We will these heathen now by idola- 
trous practices so darkened better make,” said 
Justus in the early days of his career. “Yes,” he 
added, with conviction, “they shall be good and 
shall with their hands to work learn. For all good 
Christians must work.” And upon a stipend more 
modest even than that of an English lay-reader, 
Justus Krenk kept house beyond Kamala and the 
gorge of Malair, beyond the Berbulda River close 
to the foot of the blue hill of Panth on whose sum- 
mit stands the Temple of Dungara — in the heart 
of the country of the Buria Kol — the naked, good- 
tempered, timid, shameless, lazy Buria Kol. 

Do you know what life at a mission outpost 
means? Try to imagine a loneliness exceeding 
that of the smallest station to which government 
has ever sent you — isolation that weighs upon the 
waking eyelids and drives you perforce headlong 
into the labors of the day. There is no post, there 


THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 233 

is no one of your own color to speak to, there are 
no' roads ; there is, indeed, food to keep you alive, 
but it is not pleasant to eat ; and whatever of good 
or beauty or interest there is in your life, must 
come from yourself and the grace that may be 
planted in you. 

In the morning, with a patter of soft feet, the 
converts, the doubtful, and the open scoffers, 
troop up to the veranda. You must be infinitely 
kind and patient, and, above all, clear-sighted, for 
you deal with the simplicity of childhood, the ex- 
perience of man, and the subtlety of the savage. 
Your congregation have a hundred material wants 
to be considered ; and it is for you, as you believe 
in your personal responsibility to your Maker, to 
pick out of the clamoring crowd any grain of spir- 
ituality that may lie therein. If to the cure of 
souls you add that of bodies, your task will be all 
the more difficult, for the sick and the maimed will 
profess any and every creed for the sake of heal- 
ing, and will laugh at you because you are simple 
enough to believe them. 

As the day wears and the impetus of the morn- 
ing dies away, there will come upon you an over- 
whelming sense of the uselessness of your toil. 


234 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


This must be striven against, and the only spur in 
your side will be the belief that you are playing 
against the devil for the living soul. It is a great, 
a joyous belief; but he who can hold it unwaver- 
ing for four-and-twenty consecutive hours must 
be blessed with an abundantly strong physique 
and equable nerve. 

Ask the gray heads of the Bannockburn Med- 
ical Crusade what manner of life their preachers 
lead; speak to the Racine Gospel Agency, those 
lean Americans whose boast is that they go where 
no Englishman dare follow; get a pastor of the 
Tubingen Mission to talk of his experiences — if 
you can. You will be referred to the printed re- 
ports, but these contain no mention of the men 
who have lost youth and health, all that a man 
may lose except faith, in the wilds; of English 
maidens who have gone forth and died in the 
fever-stricken jungle of the Panth Hills, know- 
ing from the first that death was almost a cer- 
tainty. Few pastors will tell you of these things 
any more than they will speak of that young 
David of St. Bees, who, set apart for the Lord’s 
work, broke down in the utter desolation, and 
returned half distraught to the head mission, cry- 


THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 


235 


in g: “There is no God, but I have walked witli 
the devil !” 

The reports are silent here, because heroism, 
failure, doubt, despair and self-abnegation on the 
part of a mere cultured white man are things of 
no weight as compared to the saving of one half- 
human soul from a fantastic faith in wood-spirits, 
goblins of the rock, and river-fiends. 

And Gallio, the assistant collector of the coun- 
try-side, “cared for none of these things.” He 
had been long in the district, and the Buria Kol 
loved him and brought him offerings of speared 
fish, orchids from the dim, moist heart of the 
forest, and as much game as he could eat. In re- 
turn, he gave them quinine, and with Athon Daze, 
the high priest, controlled their simple policies. 

“When you have been some years in the coun- 
try,” said Gallio at the Krenk’s table, “you grow 
to find one creed as good as another. I’ll give 
you all the assistance in my power, of course, but 
don’t hurt my Buria Kol. They are a good peo- 
ple and they trust me.” 

“I will them the Word of the Lord teach,” said 
Justus, his round face beaming with enthusiasm, 
“and I will assuredly to their prejudices no wrong 


236 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

hastily without thinking make. But, oh, my 
friend, this in the mind impartiality-of-creed- 
judgment-belooking is very bad.” 

“Heigh-ho!” said Gallio, “I have their bodies 
and the district to see to, but you can try what 
you can do for their souls. Only don’t behave as 
your predecessor did, or I’m afraid that I can’t 
guarantee your life.” 

“And that?” said Lotta, sturdily, handing him 
a cup of tea. 

“He went up to the Temple of Dungara — to be 
sure he was new to the country — and began ham- 
mering old Dungara over the head with an um- 
brella; so the Buria Kol turned out and ham- 
mered him rather savagely. I was in the district, 
and he sent a runner to me with a note, saying: 
‘Persecuted for the Lord’s sake. Send wing of 
regiment.’ The nearest troops were about two 
hundred miles off, but I guessed what he had. 
been doing. I rode to Panth and talked to old 
Athon Daze like a father, telling him that a man 
of his wisdom ought tO' have known that the 
Sahib had sunstroke and was mad. You never 
saw a people more sorry in your life. Athon 
Daze apologized, sent wood and milk and fowls 


THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 


237 


and all sorts of things ; and I gave five rupees to 
the shrine and told Macnamara that he had been 
injudicious. He said that I had bowed down in 
the House of Rimmon; but if he had only just 
gone over the brow of the hill and insulted Palin 
Deo, the idol of the Suria Kol, he would have 
been impaled on a charred bamboo long before I 
could have done anything, and then I should have 
had to have hanged some of the poor brutes. Be 
gentle with them, padri — but I don’t think you’ll 
do much.” 

“Not I,” said Justus, “but my Master. We 
will with the little children begin. Many of them 
will be sick — that is so. After the children the 
mothers ; and then the men. But I would greatly 
that you were in internal sympathies with us pre- 
fer.” 

Gallio departed to risk his life in mending the 
rotten bamboo bridges of his people, in killing a 
too-persistent tiger here or there, in sleeping out 
in the reeking jungle, or in tracking the Suria 
Kol raiders who had taken a few heads from their 
brethren of the Buria clan. A knock-kneed 
shambling young man was Gallio, naturally de- 
void of creed or reverence, with a longing for ab- 

16 


238 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


solute power which his undesirable district grati- 
fied. 

“No one wants my post,” he used to say, grim- 
ly, “and my collector only pokes his nose in when 
he’s quite certain that there is no^ fever. I’m mon- 
arch of all I survey, and Athon Daze is my vice- 
roy.” 

Because Gallio prided himself on his supreme 
disregard of human life — though he never ex- 
tended the theory beyond his own — he naturally 
rode forty miles to the mission with a tiny brown 
baby on his saddle-bow. 

“Here is something for you, padri,” said he. 
“The Kols leave their surplus children to die. 
Don’t see why they shouldn’t, but you may rear 
this one. I picked it up beyond the Berbulda fork. 
I’ve a notion that the mother has been following 
me through the woods ever since.” 

“It is the first of the fold,” said Justus, and 
Lotta caught up the screaming morsel to' her 
bosom and hushed it craftily; while as a wolf 
hangs in the field, Matui, who had borne it and in 
accordance with the law of her tribe had exposed 
it to die, panted wearily and foot-sore in the bam- 
boo brake, watching the house with hungry 


THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 239 

mother-eyes. What would the omnipotent assist- 
ant collector do? Would the little man in the 
black coat eat her daughter alive as Athon Daze 
said was the custom of all men in black coats? 

Matui waited among the bamboos through the 
long night ; and, in the morning, there came forth 
a fair, white woman, the like of whom Matui had 
never seen, and in her arms was Matui’s daughter 
clad in spotless raiment. Lotta knew little of the 
tongue of the Buria Kol, but when mother calls 
to mother, speech is easy to understand. By the 
hands stretched timidly to the hem of her gown, 
by the passionate gutturals and the longing eyes, 
Lotta understood with whom she had to deal. So 
Matui took her child again — would be a servant, 
even a slave, to this wonderful white woman, for 
her own tribe would recognize her no more. And 
Lotta wept with her exhaustively, after the Ger- 
man fashion, which includes much blowing of the 
nose. 

“First the child, then the mother, and last the 
man, and to the glory of God all,” said Justus the 
Hopeful. And the man came, with a bow and 
arrows, very angry indeed, for there was no one 
to cook for him. 


240 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


But the tale of the mission is a long one, and I 
have no space to show how Justus, forgetful of his 
injudicious predecessor, grievously smote Moto, 
the husband of Matui, for his brutality; how 
Moto was startled, but being released from the 
fear of instant death, took heart and became the 
faithful ally and first convert of Justus; how the 
little gathering grew, to the huge disgust of 
Athon Daze ; how the priest of the God of Things 
as They Are argued subtly with the priest of the 
God of Things as They Should Be, and was 
worsted ; how the dues of the Temple of Dungara 
fell away in fowls and fish and honeycomb; how 
Lotta lightened the curse of Eve among the wo- 
men, and how Justus did his best to introduce the 
curse of Adam; how the Buria Kol rebelled at 
this, saying that their god was an idle god, and 
how Justus partially overcame their scruples 
against work, and taught them that the black 
earth was rich in other produce than pig-nuts 
only. 

All these things belong to the history of many 
months, and throughout those months the white- 
haired Athon Daze meditated revenge for the 
tribal neglect of Dungara. With savage cunning 


THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 


24I 


he feigned friendship toward Justus, even hinting 
at his own conversion ; but to the congregation of 
Dungara he said, darkly : '‘They of the padri’s 
flock have put on clothes and worship a busy God. 
Therefore Dungara will afflict them grievously 
till they throw themselves howling into the waters 
of the Berbulda.” At night the Red Elephant 
Tusk boomed and groaned among the hills, and 
the faithful waked and said : “The God of Things 
as They Are matures revenge against the back- 
sliders. Be merciful, Dungara, to us thy children, 
and give us all their crops !” 

Late in the cold weather the collector and his 
wife came into the Buria Kol colony. “Go' and 
look at Krenk’s mission,” said Gallio. “He is 
doing good work in his own way, and I think he’d 
be pleased if you opened the bamboo chapel that 
he has managed to run up. At any rate, you’ll 
see a civilized Buria Kol.” 

Great was the stir in the mission. “Now he 
and the gracious lady will that we have done 
good work with their own eyes see, and — yes — 
we will him our converts in all their new clothes 
by their own hands constructed exhibit. It will 


242 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

a great day be — for the Lord always/’ said Jus- 
tus; and Lotta said “Amen.” 

Justus had, in his quiet way, felt jealous of the 
Basel Weaving Mission, his own converts being 
unhandy; but Athon Daze had latterly induced 
some of them to hackle the glossy, silky fibers of a 
plant that grew plenteously on the Panth Hill. 
It yielded a cloth white and smooth almost as the 
tappa of the South Seas, and that day the con- 
verts were to wear for the first time clothing made 
therefrom. Justus was proud of his work. 

“They shall in white clothes clothed to meet 
the collector and his well-born lady come down, 
singing ‘Now thank we all our God.’ Then he 
will the chapel open, and — yes — even Gallio to be- 
lieve will begin. Stand so, my children, two by 
two, and — Lotta, why do they thus themselves 
scratch? It is not seemly to' wriggle, Nala, my 
child. The collector will be here and be pained.” 

The collector, his wife, and Gallio climbed the 
hill to the mission station. The converts were 
drawn up in two lines, a shining band nearly forty 
strong. “Hah!” said the collector, whose ac- 
quisitive bent of mind led him to believe that he 
had fostered the institution from the first. 


THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 243 

“Advancing, I see, by leaps and bounds.” 

Never was truer word spoken! The mission 
was advancing exactly as he had said — at first by 
little hops and shuffles of shame-faced uneasiness, 
but soon by the leaps of fly-stung horses and the 
bounds of maddened kangaroos. From the hill 
of Panth the Red Elephant Tusk delivered a dry 
and anguished blare. The ranks of the converts 
wavered, broke and scattered with yells and 
shrieks of pain, while Justus and Lotta stood hor- 
ror-stricken. 

“It is the judgment of Dungara!” shouted a 
voice. “I burn ! I burn ! To the river or we die !” 

The mob wheeled and headed for the rocks that 
overhung the Berbulda writhing, stamping, twist- 
ing and shedding its garments as it ran, pursued 
by the thunder of the trumpet of Dungara. Jus- 
tus and Lotta fled to the collector almost in tears. 

“I can not understand! Yesterday,” panted 
Justus, “they had the Ten Commandments — 
What is this? Praise the Lord all good spirits 
by land or by sea. Nala! Oh, shame!” 

With a bound and a scream there alighted on 
the rocks above their heads, Nala, once the pride 
of the mission, a maiden of fourteen summers. 


244 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


good, docile, and virtuous — now spitting like a 
wild-cat. 

“Was it for this !” she raved, hurling her petti- 
coat at Justus; “was it for this I left my people 
and Dungara — for the fires of your bad place? 
Blind ape, little earth-worm, dried fish that you 
are, you said that I should never burn ! Oh, Dun- 
gara, I burn now! I burn now! Have mercy, 
God of Things as They Are !” 

She turned and flung herself into the Berbulda ; 
and the trumpet of Dungara bellowed jubilantly. 
The last of the converts of the Tubingen Mission 
had put a quarter of a mile of rapid river between 
herself and her teachers. 

“Yesterday,” gulped Justus, “she taught in the 
school A, B, C, D. Oh ! It is the work of Satan !” 

But Gallio was curiously regarding the maid- 
en’s petticoat where it had fallen at his feet. He 
felt its texture, drew back his shirt-sleeve beyond 
the deep tan of his hand, and pressed a fold of the 
cloth against the flesh. A blotch of angry red rose 
on the white skin. 

“Ah !” said Gallio, calmly, “I thought so.” 

“What is it?” said Justus. 

“I should call it the shirt of Nessus, but — 


THE JUDGMENT OF DUNGARA. 245 

Where did you get the fiber of this cloth from?” 

“Athon Daze,” said Justus. “He showed the 
boys how it should manufactured be.” 

“The old fox ! Do you know that he has given 
you the Nilgiri nettle — scorpion — Girardenia 
heterophylla — to work up. No wonder they 
squirmed ! Why, it stings even when they make 
bridge-rcpes of it, unless it’s soaked for six weeks. 
The cunning brute ! It would take half an hour 
to burn through their thick hides, and then— !” 

Gallio burst into laughter, but Lotta was weep- 
ing in the arms of the collector’s wife, and Justus 
had covered his face with his hands. 

“Girardenia heterophylla !” repeated Gallio. 
“Krenk, why didn’t you tell me? I could have 
saved you this. Woven fire! Anybody but a 
naked Kol would have known it, and, if I’m a 
judge of their ways, you’ll never get them back.” 

He looked across the river to where the con- 
verts were still wallowing and wailing in the 
shallows, and the laughter died out of his eyes, 
for he saw that the Tubingen Mission to the Buria 
Kol was dead. 

Never again, though they hung mournfully 
round the deserted school for three months, could 


246 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Lotta or Justus coax back even the most promis- 
ing of their flock. No! The end of conversion 
was the fire of the bad place — fire that ran 
through the limbs and gnawed into the bones. 
Who dare a second time tempt the anger of Dun- 
gara? Let the little man and his wife go else- 
where. The Buria Kol would have none of them. 
An unofficial message to Athon Daze that if a 
hair of their heads were touched, Athon Daze and 
the priests of Dungara would be hanged by Gallio 
at the temple shrine, protected Justus and Lotta 
from the stumpy, poisoned arrows of the Buria 
Kol, but neither fish nor fowl, honey-comb, salt 
nor young pig were brought to their doors any 
more. And, alas! man can not live by grace 
alone if meat be wanting. 

“Let us go, mine wife,” said Justus; “there is 
no good here, and the Lord has willed that some 
other man shall the work take — in good time — in 
His own good time. We will go away, and I 
will — yes — some botany bestudy.” 

If any one is anxious to convert the Buria Kol 
afresh, there lies at least the core of a mission- 
house under the hill of Panth. But the chapel 
and school have long since fallen back into jungle. 


THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHEK- 
DOWN” 


It was our war-ship “Clampherdown” 
Would sweep the Channel clean, 
Wherefore she kept her hatches close 
When the merry Channel chops arose, 

To save the bleached marine. 

She had one bow-gun of a hundred ton, 

And a great stern-gun beside; 

They dipped their noses deep in the sea, 
They racked their stays and staunchions free 
In the wash of the wind-whipped tide. 

It was our war-ship “Clampherdown, ” 

Fell in with a cruiser light 
That carried the dainty Hotchkiss gun 
And a pair o’ heels wherewith to run, 

From the grip of a close-fought fight. 


247 


248 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


She opened fire at seven miles — 

As ye shoot at a bobbing cork — 

And once she fired and twice she fired, 

Till the bow-gun drooped like a lily tired 
That lolls upon the stalk. 

“Captain, the bow-gun melts apace, 

“The deck-beams break below, 

“ Twere well to rest for an hour or twain, 
“And botch the shattered plates again.” 

And he answered, “Make it so.” 

She opened fire within the mile — 

As ye shoot at the flying duck — 

And the great stern-gun shot fair and true, 
With the heave of the ship, to the stainless blue, 
And the great stern-turret stuck. 

“Captain, the turret fills with steam, 

“The feed-pipes burst below — 

“You can hear the hiss of helpless ram, 

“You can hear the twisted runners jam.” 

And he answered, “Turn and go!” 


THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN.” 249 

It was our war-ship “Clampherdown,” 

And grimly did she roll; 

Swung round to take the cruiser’s fire 

As the White Whale faces the Thresher’s ire, 
When they war by the frozen Pole. 

“Captain, the shells are falling fast, 

“And faster still fall we; 

“And it is not meet for English stock, 

“To bide in the heart of an eight-day clock, 
“The death they cannot see.” 

“Lie down, lie down my bold A. B., 

“We drift upon her beam ; 

“We dare not ram for she can run ; 

“And dare ye fire another gun, 

“And die in the peeling steam?” 


It was our war-ship “Clampherdown” 

That carried an armour-belt ; 

But fifty feet at stern and bow, 

Lay bare as the paunch of the purser’s sow, 
To the hail of the Nordenfeldt. 


250 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


“Captain, they lack us through and through ; 

“The chilled steel bolts are swift! 

“We have emptied the bunkers in open sea, 
“Their shrapnel bursts where our coal should 
be.” 

And he answered, “Let her drift.” 

It was our war-ship “Clampherdown,” 

Swung round upon the tide, 

Her two dumb guns glared south and north, 
And the blood and the bubbling steam ran 
forth, 

And she ground the cruiser's side. 

“Captain,” they cry, “the fight is done, 

They bid you send your sword.” 

And he answered, “Grapple her stern and bow. 
“They have asked for the steel. They shall 
have it now; 

“Out cutlasses and board!” 

It was our war-ship “Clampherdown,” 

Spewed up four hundred men ; 

And the scalded stokers yelped delight, 

As they rolled in the waist and heard the fight, 
Stamp o'er their steel walled pen. 


THE BALLAD OF THE “CLAMPHERDOWN.” 25 1 

They cleared the cruiser end to end, 

From conning- tower to hold. 

They fought as they fought in Nelson’s fleet; 
They were stripped to the waist, they were bare 
to the feet, 

As it was in the days of old. 

It was the sinking “Clampherdown” 

Heaved up her battered side — 

And carried a million pounds in steel, 

To the cod and the corpse-fed conger-eel 
And the scour of the Channel tide. 

It was the crew of the “Clampherdown” 

Stood out to sweep the sea, 

On a cruiser won from an ancient foe, 

As it was in the days of long-ago, 

And as it still shall be. 


MOTI GUJ-MUTINEER. 


Once upon a time there was a coffee-planter in 
India who wished to clear some forest land for 
coffee-planting. When he had cut down all the 
trees and burned the underwood, the stumps still 
remained. Dynamite is expensive and slow fire 
slow. The happy medium for stump-clearing is 
the lord of all beasts, who is the elephant. He will 
either push the stump out of the ground with his 
tusks, if he has any, or drag it out with ropes. 
The planter, therefore, hired elephants by ones 
and twos and threes, and fell to work. The very 
best of all the elephants belonged to the very worst 
of all the drivers or mahouts; and this superior 
beast’s name was Moti Guj. He was the absolute 
property of his mahout, which would never have 
been the case under native rule ; for Moti Guj was 
a creature to be desired by kings, and his name, 
being translated, meant the Pearl Elephant. Be- 
cause the British government was in the land, 
Deesa, the mahout, enjoyed his property undis- 
turbed. He was dissipated. When he had made 

252 


MOTI GUJ — MUTINEER. 


253 


much money through the strength of his elephant, 
he would get extremely drunk and give Moti Guj 
a beating with a tent-peg over the tender nails of 
the forefeet. Moti Guj never trampled the life out 
of Deesa on these occasions, for he knew that after 
the beating was over Deesa would embrace his 
trunk and weep and call him his love and his life 
and the liver of his soul, and give him some liquor. 
Moti Guj was very fond of liquor — arrack for 
choice, though he would drink palm-tree toddy if 
nothing better offered. Then Deesa would go to 
sleep between Moti Guj’s forefeet, and as Deesa 
generally chose the middle of the public road, and 
as Moti Guj mounted guard over him, and would 
not permit horse, foot, or cart to pass by, traffic 
was congested till Deesa saw fit to wake up. 

There was no sleeping in the day-time on the 
planter's clearing: the wages were too high to 
risk. Deesa sat on Moti Guj’s neck and gave him 
orders, while Moti Guj rooted up the stumps — 
for he owned a magnificent pair of tusks; or 
pulled at the end of a rope — for he had a magnifi- 
cent pair of shoulders — while Deesa kicked him 
behind the ears and said he was the king of ele- 
phants. At evening time Moti Guj would wash 

17 


254 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


down his three hundred pounds’ weight of green 
food with a quart of arrack, and Deesa would take 
a share, and sing songs between Moti Guj’s legs 
till it was time to go to bed. Once a week Deesa 
led Moti Guj down to the river, and Moti Guj lay 
on his side luxuriously in the shallows, while 
Deesa went over him with a coir swab and a 
brick. Moti Guj never mistook the pounding 
blow of the latter for the smack of the former that 
warned him to get up and turn over on the other 
side. Then Deesa would look at his feet and 
examine his eyes, and turn up the fringes of his 
mighty ears in case of sores or budding ophthal- 
mia. After inspection the two would “come up 
with a song from the sea,” Moti Guj, all black 
and shining, waving a torn tree branch twelve feet 
long in his trunk, and Deesa knotting up his own 
long wet hair. 

It was a peaceful, well-paid life till Deesa felt 
the return of the desire to drink deep. He wished 
for an orgy. The little draughts that led nowhere 
were taking the manhood out of him. 

He went to the planter, and “My mother’s 
dead,” said he, weeping. 

“She died on the last plantation two months 


MOTI GUJ MUTINEER. 


255 


ago, and she died once before when you were 
working for me last year,” said the planter, who 
knew something of the ways of nativedom. 

“Then it’s my aunt, and she was just the same 
as a mother to me,” said Deesa, weeping more 
than ever. “She has left eighteen small children 
entirely without bread, and it is I who must fill 
their little stomachs,” said Deesa, beating his head 
on the floor. 

“Who brought you the news ?” said the planter. 

“The post,” said Deesa. 

“There hasn’t been a post here for the past 
week. Get back to your lines !” 

“A devastating sickness has fallen on my vil- 
lage, and all my wives are dying,” yelled Deesa, 
really in tears this time. 

“Call Chihun, who comes from Deesa’s vil- 
lage,” said the planter. “Chihun, has this man 
got a wife ?” 

“He?” said Chihun. “No. Not a woman of 
our village would look at him. They’d sooner 
marry the elephant.” 

Chihun snorted. Deesa wept and bellowed. 

“You will get into a difficulty in a minute,” said 
the planter. “Go back to your work !” 


256 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


“Now I will speak Heaven’s truth,’’ gulped 
Deesa, with an inspiration. “I haven’t been drunk 
for two months. I desire to depart in order to get 
properly drunk afar off and distant from this 
heavenly plantation. Thus I shall cause no 
trouble.” 

A flickering smile crossed the planter’s face. 
“Deesa,” said he, “you’ve spoken the truth, and 
I’d give you leave on the spot if anything could be 
done with Moti Guj while you’re away. You 
know that he will only obey your orders.” 

“May the light of the heavens live forty thou- 
sand years. I shall be absent but ten little days. 
After that, upon my faith and honor and soul, I 
return. As to the inconsiderable interval, have I 
the gracious permission of the heaven-born to call 
up Moti Guj ?” 

Permission was granted, and in answer to 
Deesa’s shrill yell, the mighty tusker swung out of 
the shade of a clump of trees where he had been 
squirting dust over himself till his master should 
return. 

“Light of my heart, protector of the drunken, 
mountain of might, give ear !” said Deesa, stand- 
ing in front of him. 


MOTI GUJ MUTINEER. 257 

Moti Guj gave ear, and saluted with his trunk. 
“I am going away,” said Deesa. 

Moti Guj’s eyes twinkled. He liked jaunts as 
well as his master. One could snatch all manner 
of nice things from the road-side then. 

“But you, you fussy old pig, must stay behind 
and work.” 

The twinkle died out as Moti Guj tried to look 
delighted. He hated stump-hauling on the plan- 
tation. It hurt his teeth. 

“I shall be gone for ten days, oh, delectable one ! 
Hold up your near forefoot and Til impress the 
fact upon it, warty toad of a dried mud-puddle.” 
Deesa took a tent-peg and banged Moti Guj ten 
times on the nails. Moti Guj grunted and shuffled 
from foot to foot. 

“Ten days,” said Deesa, “you will work and 
haul and root the trees as Chihun here shall order 
you. Take up Chihun and set him on your neck!” 
Moti Guj curled the tip of his trunk, Chihun put 
his foot there, and was swung on to the neck. 
Deesa handed Chihun the heavy ankus — the iron 
elephant goad. 

Chihun thumped Moti Guj’s bald head as a 
paver thumps a curbstone. 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


258 

Moti Guj trumpeted. 

“Be still, hog of the backwoods ! Chihun’s your 
mahout for ten days. And now bid me good-bye, 
beast after my own heart. Oh, my lord, my king ! 
Jewel of all created elephants, lily of the herd, pre- 
serve your honored health ; be virtuous. Adieu !” 

Moti Guj lapped his trunk round Deesa and 
swung him into the air twice. This was his way 
of bidding him good-bye. 

“He’ll work now,” said Deesa to the planter. 
“Have I leave to go?” 

The planter nodded, and Deesa dived into the 
woods. Moti Guj went back to haul stumps. 

Chihun was very kind to him, but he felt un- 
happy and forlorn for all that. Chihun gave him 
a ball of spices, and tickled him under the chin, 
and Chihun’s little baby cooed to him after work 
was over, and Chihun’s wife called him a darling ; 
but Moti Guj was a bachelor by instinct, as Deesa 
was. He did not understand the domestic emo- 
tions. He wanted the light of his universe back 
again — the drink and the drunken slumber, the 
savage beatings and the savage caresses. 

None the less he worked well, and the planter 
wondered. Deesa had wandered along the roads 


MOTI GUJ— -MUTINEER 


259 


till he met a marriage procession of his own caste, 
and, drinking, dancing, and tippling, had drifted 
with it past all knowledge of the lapse of time. 

The morning of the eleventh day dawned, and 
there returned no Deesa. Mod Guj was loosed 
from his ropes for the daily stint. He swung 
clear, looked round, shrugged his shoulders, and 
began to walk away, as one having business else- 
where. 

“Hi! ho! Come back you!” shouted Chihum 
“Come back and put me on your neck, misborn 
mountain! Return, splendor of the hill-sides! 
Adornment of all India, heave to, or I’ll bang 
every toe off your fat forefoot!” 

Moti Guj gurgled gently, but did not obey. 
Chihun ran after him with a rope and caught him 
up. Moti Guj put his ears forward, and Chihun 
knew what that meant, though he tried to carry it 
off with high words. 

“None of your nonsense with me,” said he. 
“To your pickets, devil-son!” 

“Hrrump!” said Moti Guj, and that was all — 
that and the forebent ears. 

Moti Guj put his hands in his pockets, chewed 
a branch for a toothpick, and strolled about the 


26 o 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


clearing, making fun of the other elephants who 
had just set tO' work. 

Chihur. reported the state of affairs to the 
planter, who came out with a dog-whip and 
cracked it furiously. Moti Guj paid the white 
man the compliment of charging him nearly a 
quarter of a mile across the clearing and 
“Hrrumphing” him into his veranda. Then he 
stood outside the house, chuckling to himself and 
shaking all over with the fun of it, as an elephant 
will. 

“We’ll thrash him,” said the planter. “He shall 
have the finest thrashing ever elephant received. 
Give Kala Nag and Nazim twelve foot of chain 
apiece, and tell them to lay on twenty.” 

Kala Nag — which means Black Snake — and 
Nazim were two of the biggest elephants in the 
lines, and one of their duties was to administer 
the graver punishment, since no man can beat an 
elephant properly. 

They took the whipping-chains and rattled 
them in their trunks as they sidled up to Moti Guj, 
meaning to hustle him between them. Moti Guj 
had never, in all his life of thirty-nine years, been 
whipped, and he did not intend to begin a new 


MOTI GUJ MUTINEER. 


26l 


experience. So he waited, waving his head from 
right to left, and measuring the precise spot in 
Kala Nag’s fat side where a blunt tusk could sink 
deepest. Kala Nag had no tusks; the chain was 
the badge of his authority; but for all that, he 
swung wide of Moti Guj at the last minute, and 
tried to appear as if he had brought the chain out 
for amusement. Nazim turned round and went 
home early. He did not feel fit that morning, and 
so Moti Guj was left standing alone with his ears 
cocked. 

That decided the planter to argue no more, and 
Moti Guj rolled back to his amateur inspection of 
the clearing. An elephant who will not work and 
is not tied up is about as manageable as an eighty- 
one-ton gun loose in a heavy seaway. He slapped 
old friends on the back and asked them if the 
stumps were coming away easily; he talked non- 
sense concerning labor and the inalienable rights 
of elephants to a long “nooning;” and, wandering 
to and fro, he thoroughly demoralized the garden 
till sundown, when he returned to his picket for 
food. 

“If you won’t work, you sha’n’t eat,” said 
Chihun, angrily. “You’re a wild elephant, and no 


262 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


educated animal at all. Go back to your jungle.” 

Chihun’s little brown baby was rolling on the 
floor of the hut, and stretching out its fat arms 
to the huge shadow in the doorway. Moti Guj 
knew well that it was the dearest thing on earth to 
Chihun. He swung out his trunk with a fasci- 
nating crook at the end, and the brown baby 
threw itself, shouting, upon it. Moti Guj made 
fast and pulled up till the brown baby was crowing 
in the air twelve feet above his father’s head. 

“Great Lord !” said Chihun. “Flour cakes of 
the best, twelve in number, two' feet across and 
soaked in rum, shall be yours on the instant, and 
two hundred pounds weight of fresh-cut young 
sugar cane therewith. Deign only to put down 
safely that insignificant brat who is my heart and 
my life to me!” 

Moti Guj tucked the brown baby comfortably 
between his forefeet, that could have knocked into 
toothpicks all Chihun’s hut, and waited for his 
food. He ate it, and the brown baby crawled 
away. Moti Guj dozed and thought of Deesa. 
One of many mysteries connected with the ele- 
phant is that his huge body needs less sleep than 
anything else that lives. Four or five hours in the 



Page 262 

Moti Guj pulled up till the brown baby was in the air 
twelve feet above his father' s head 












































MOTI GUJ — MUTINEER. 


263 


night suffice — two just before midnight, lying 
down on one side ; two just after one o’clock, lying 
down on the other. The rest of the silent hours 
are filled with eating and fidgeting, and long 
grumbling soliloquies. 

At midnight, therefore, Moti Guj strode out of 
his pickets, for a thought had come to him that 
Deesa might be lying drunk somewhere in the 
dark forest with none to look after him. So all 
that night he chased through the undergrowth, 
blowing and trumpeting and shaking his ears. He 
went down to the river and blared across the shal- 
lows where Deesa used to wash him, but there was 
no answer. He could not find Deesa, but he dis- 
turbed all the other elephants in the line, and 
nearly frightened to death some gypsies in the 
woods. 

At dawn Deesa returned to the plantation. He 
had been very drunk indeed, and he expected to 
get into trouble for outstaying his leave. He drew 
a long breath when he saw that the bungalow and 
the plantation were still uninjured, for he knew 
something of Moti Guj’s temper, and reported 
himself with many lies and salaams. Moti Guj 


264 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


had gone to his pickets for breakfast. The night 
exercise had made him hungry. 

“Call up your beast,” said the planter; and 
Deesa shouted in the mysterious elephant lan- 
guage that some mahouts believe came from 
China at the birth of the world, when elephants 
and not men were masters. Moti Guj heard and 
came. Elephants do not gallop. They move from 
places at varying rates of speed. If an elephant 
wished to catch an express train he could not gal- 
lop, but he could catch the train. So- Moti Guj 
was at the planter’s door almost before Chihun no- 
ticed that he had left his pickets. He fell into 
Deesa’s arms trumpeting with joy, and the man 
and beast wept and slobbered over each other, and 
handled each other from head to heel to see that 
no harm had befallen. 

“Now we will get to work,” said Deesa. “Lift 
me up, my son and my joy!” 

Moti Guj swung him up, and the two went to 
the co-ffee-clearing to look for difficult stumps. 

The planter was too astonished to be very 
angry. 


HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 


So long as the “Inextinguishables” confined 
themselves to running picnics, gymkhanas, flirta- 
tions and innocences of that kind, no one said any- 
thing. But when they ran ghosts, people put up 
their eyebrows. ’Man can’t feel comfy with a 
regiment that entertains ghosts on its establish- 
ment. It is against General Orders. The “Inex- 
tinguishables” said that the ghosts were private 
and not Regimental property. They referred you 
to Tesser for particulars; and Tesser told you to 
go to — the hottest cantonment of all. He said 
that it was bad enough to have men making hay 
of his bedding and breaking his banjo-strings 
when he was out, without being chaffed after- 
wards ; and he would thank you to keep your re- 
marks on ghosts to yourself. This was before the 
“Inextinguishables” had sworn by their several 
lady-loves that they were innocent of any in- 
trusion into Tesser’s quarters. Then Horrocks 
mentioned casually at Mess, that a couple of white 

figures had been bounding about his room the 
265 


266 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


night before, and he didn’t approve of it. The 
“Inextinguishables” denied, energetically, that 
they had had any hand in the manifestations, and 
advised Horrocks to consult Tesser. 

I don’t suppose that a Subaltern believes in any- 
thing except his chances of a Company ; but Hor- 
rocks and Tesser were exceptions. They came to 
believe in their ghosts. They had reason. 

Horrocks used to find himself, at about three 
o’clock in the morning, staring wide-awake, 
watching two white Things hopping about his 
room and jumping up to the ceiling. Horrocks 
was of a placid turn of mind. After a week or so 
spent in watching his servants, and lying in wait 
for strangers, and trying to keep awake all night, 
he came to the conclusion that he was haunted, 
and that, consequently, he need not bother. He 
wasn’t going to> encourage these ghosts by being 
frightened at them. Therefore when he awoke — 
as usual — with a start and saw these Things 
jumping like kangaroos, he only murmured : — 
“Go on! Don’t mind me!” and went to sleep 
again. 

Tesser said: — “It’s all very well for you to 
make fun of your show. You can see your ghosts. 


HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 


267 


Now I can’t see mine, and I don’t half like it.” 

Tesser used to come into his room of nights, 
and find the whole of his bedding neatly stripped, 
as if it had been done with one sweep of the hand, 
from the top right-hand corner of the charpoy to 
the bottom left-hand corner. Also his lamp used 
to lie weltering on the floor, and generally his pet 
screw-head, inlaid, nickel-plated banjo was lying 
on the charpoy, with all its strings broken. Tesser 
took away the strings, on the occasion of the third 
manifestation, and the next night a man compli- 
mented him on his playing the best music ever got 
out of a banjo, for half an hour. 

“Which half hour?” said Tesser. 

“Between nine and ten,” said the man. Tesser 
had gone out to dinner at 7 130 and had returned at 
midnight. 

He talked to his bearer and threatened him with 
unspeakable things. The bearer was gray with 
fear : — “I’m a poor man,” said he. “If the Sahib 
is haunted by a Devil, what can I do ?” 

“Who says I’m haunted by a Devil?” howled 
Tesser, for he was angry. 

“I have seen It,” said the bearer, “at night, 
walking round and round your bed; and that is 


268 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


why everything is ulta-pulta in your room. I am 
a poor man, but I never go into your room alone. 
The bhisti comes with me/’ 

Tesser was thoroughly savage at this, and he 
spoke to Horrocks, and the two laid traps to catch 
the Devil, and threatened their servants with dog- 
whips if any more “shaitan-ke- hanky-panky” took 
place. But the servants were soaked with fear, 
and it was no use adding to their tortures. When 
Tesser went out at night, four of his men, as a 
rule, slept in the veranda of his quarters, until the 
banjo without the strings struck up, and then they 
fled. 

One day, Tesser had to put in a month at the 
Fort with a detachment of “Inextinguishables.” 
The Fort might have been Govindghar, Jumrood, 
or Phillour ; but it wasn’t. He left Cantonments 
rejoicing, for his Devil was preying on his mind; 
and with him went another Subaltern, a junior. 
But the Devil came, too. After Tesser had been 
in the Fort about ten days he went out to dinner. 
When he came back he found his Subaltern doing 
sentry on a banquette across the Fort Ditch, as far 
removed as might be from the Officers’ Quarters. 

“What’s wrong?” said Tesser. 


HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 


269 


The Subaltern said, “Listen!” and the two, 
standing under the stars, heard from the Officers’ 
Quarters, high up in the wall of the Fort, the 
“strumty tumty tumty” of the banjo; which 
seemed to have an oratorio on hand. 

“That performance,” said the Subaltern, “has 
been going on for three mortal hours. I never 
wished to desert before, but I do now. I say, Tes- 
ser, old man, you are the best of good fellows, I’m 
sure, but — I say — look here, now, you are quite 
unfit to live with. ’Tisn’t in my Commission, you 
know, that I’m to serve under a — a — man with 
Devils.” 

“Isn’t it?” said Tesser. “If you make an ass of 
yourself I’ll put you under arrest — and in my 
room!” 

“You can put me where you please, but I’m not 
going to assist at these infernal concerts. ’Tisn’t 
right. ’Tisn’t natural. Look here, I don’t want 
to hurt your feelings, but — try to think now — 
haven’t you done something — committed some — 
murder that has slipped your memory — or forged 
something — ?” 

“Well ! For an all-round, double-shotted, half- 

baked fool you are the — ” 

18 


270 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

“I dare say I am,” said the Subaltern. “But 
you don’t expect me to keep my wits with that 
row going on, do you ?” 

The banjo was rattling away as if it had twenty 
strings. Tesser sent up a stone, and a shower of 
broken window-pane fell into the Fort Ditch ; but 
the banjo kept on. Tesser hauled the other Sub- 
altern up to the quarters, and found his room in 
frightful confusion — lamp upset, bedding all over 
the floor, chairs overturned and table tilted side- 
ways. He took stock of the wreck and said de- 
spairingly : — “Oh, this is lovely !” 

The Subaltern was peeping in at the door. 

“I’m glad you think so,” he said. “ ’Tisn’t 
lovely enough for me. I locked up your room di- 
rectly after you had gone out. See here, I think 
you’d better apply for Horrocks to come out in my 
place. He’s troubled with your complaint, and 
this business will make me a jabbering idiot if it 
goes on.” 

Tesser went to bed amid the wreckage, very 
angry, and next morning he rode into Canton- 
ments and asked Horrocks to arrange to relieve 
“that fool with me now.” 

“You’ve got ’em again, have you?” said Hor- 


HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 


27I 


rocks. “So’ve I. Three white figures this time. 
We’ll worry through the entertainment together.” 

So Horrocks and Tesser settled down in the 
Fort together, and the “Inextinguishables” said 
pleasant things about “seven other Devils.” Tes- 
ser didn't see where the joke came in. His room 
was thrown upside-down three nights out of the 
seven. Horrocks was not troubled in any way, so 
his ghosts must have been purely local ones. Tes- 
ser, on the other hand, was personally haunted; 
for his Devil had moved with him from Canton- 
ments to the Fort. Those two boys spent three 
parts of their time trying to find out who was re- 
sponsible for the riot in Tesser’s rooms. At the 
end of a fortnight they tried to find out what was 
responsible; and seven days later they gave it up 
as a bad job. Whatever It was, It refused to be 
caught; even when Tesser went out of the Fort 
ostentatiously, and Horrocks lay under Tesser’s 
charpoy with a revolver. The servants were 
afraid — more afraid than ever — and all the evi- 
dence showed that they had been playing no tricks. 
As Tesser said to Horrocks : — “A haunted Subal- 
tern is a joke, but s’pose this keeps on. Just think 
what a haunted Colonel would be! And, look 


272 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


here — s’pose I marry ! D’ you s’pose a girl would 
live a week with me and this Devil ?” 

“I don’t know,” said Horrocks. “I haven’t 
married often; but I knew a woman once who 
lived with her husband when he had D. T. He’s 
dead now and I dare say she would marry you if 
you asked her. She isn’t exactly a girl though, 
but she has a large experience of the other devils 
— the blue variety. She’s a Government pensioner 
now, and you might write, y’ know. Personally, 
if I hadn’t suffered from ghosts of my own, I 
should rather avoid you.” 

“That’s just the point,” said Tesser. “This 
Devil thing will end in getting me budnamed, and 
you know I’ve lived on lemon-squashes and gone 
to bed at ten for weeks past.” 

“ ’Tisn’t that sort of Devil,” said Horrocks. 
“It’s either a first-class fraud for which some one 
ought to be killed or else you’ve offended one of 
these Indian Devils. It stands to reason that such 
a beastly country should be full of fiends of all 
sorts.” 

“But why should the creature fix on me,” said 
Tesser, “and why won’t he show himself and have 
it out like a — like a Devil ?” 


HAUNTED SUBALTERNS. 


273 


They were talking outside the Mess after dark, 
and, even as they spoke, they heard the banjo be- 
gin to play in Tesser’s room, about twenty yards 
off. 

Horrocks ran to his own quarters for a shot- 
gun and a revolver, and Tesser and he crept up 
quietly, the banjo still playing, to Tesser’s door. 

“Now we’ve got It !” said Horrocks as he threw 
the door open and let fly with the twelve-bore; 
Tesser squibbing off all six barrels into the dark, 
as hard as he could pull the trigger. 

The furniture was ruined, and the whole Fort 
was awake; but that was all. No one had been 
killed, and the banjo was lying on the disheveled 
bedclothes as usual. 

Then Tesser sat down in the veranda, and used 
language that would have qualified him for the 
companionship of unlimited Devils. Horrocks 
said things too; but Tesser said the worst. 

When the month in the Fort came to an end, 
both Horrocks and Tesser were glad. They held 
a final council of war, but came to no conclusion. 

“Seems to me, your best plan would be to make 
your Devil stretch himself. Go down to Bombay 
with the time-expired men,” said Horrocks. “If 


274 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


he really is a Devil, he’ll come in the train with 
you.” 

“ ’Tisn’t good enough,” said Tesser. “Bom- 
bay’s no fit place to live in at this time of the year. 
But I’ll put in for Depot duty at the Hills.” And 
he did. 

Now here the tale rests. The Devil stayed be- 
low, and Tesser went up and was free. If I had 
invented this story, I should have put in a satis- 
factory ending — explained the manifestations as 
somebody’s practical joke. My business being to 
keep to facts, I can only say what I have said. 
The Devil may have been a hoax. If so, it was 
one of the best ever arranged. If it was not a 
hoax — but you must settle that for yourselves. 


HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. 


Then a pile of heads he laid — 

Thirty thousands heaped on high — 

All to please the Kafir maid, 

Where the Oxus ripples by. 

Grimly spake Atulla Khan: — 

“Love hath made this thing a Man.” 

Oatta's Story. 

If you go straight away from Levees and Gov- 
ernment House Lists, past Trades’ Balls — far 
beyond everything and everybody you ever knew 
in your respectable life — you cross, in time, the 
Borderline where the last drop of White blood 
ends and the full tide of Black sets in. It would 
be easier to talk to a new-made Duchess on the 
spur of the moment than to the Borderline folk 
without violating some of their conventions or 
hurting their feelings. The Black and the White 
mix very quaintly in their ways. Sometimes the 
White shows in spurts of fierce, childish pride — 
which is Pride of Race run crooked — and some- 
times the Black in still fiercer abasement and hu- 
mility, half-heathenish customs and strange, un- 
275 


276 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

accountable impulses to crime. One of these days, 
this people — understand they are far lower than 
the class whence Derozio, the man who imitated 
Byron, sprung — will turn out a writer or a poet ; 
and then we shall know how they live and what 
they feel. In the meantime, any stories about 
them cannot be absolutely correct in fact or infer- 
ence. 

Miss Vezzis came across the Borderline to look 
after some children who belonged to a lady until a 
regularly ordained nurse could come out. The 
lady said Miss Vezzis was a bad, dirty nurse and 
inattentive. It never struck her that Miss Vezzis 
had her own life to lead and her own affairs to 
worry over, and that these affairs were the most 
important things in the world to Miss Vezzis. 
Very few mistresses admit this sort of reasoning. 
Miss Vezzis was as black as a boot, and, to our 
standard of taste, hideously ugly. She wore cot- 
ton-print gowns and bulged shoes ; and when she 
lost her temper with the children, she abused them 
in the language of the Borderline — which is part 
English, part Portuguese, and part Native. She 
was not attractive, but she had her pride, and she 
preferred being called “Miss Vezzis.” 


HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. 


2 77 


Every Sunday, she dressed herself wonderfully 
and went to see her Mamma, who lived, for the 
most part, on an old cane chair in a greasy tussur- 
silk dressing-gown and a big rabbit-warren of a 
house full of Vezzises, Pereiras, Ribieras, Lisboas 
and Gonsalveses, and a floating population of loaf- 
ers ; besides fragments of the day’s market, garlic, 
stale incense, clothes thrown on the floor, petti- 
coats hung on strings for screens, old bottles, pew- 
ter crucifixes, dried immortelles, pariah puppies, 
plaster images of the Virgin, and hats without 
crowns. Miss Vezzis drew twenty rupees a month 
for acting as nurse, and she squabbled weekly with 
her Mamma as to the percentage to be given 
towards housekeeping. When the quarrel was 
over, Michele D’Cruze used to shamble across the 
low mud wall of the compound and make love to 
Miss Vezzis after the fashion of the Borderline, 
which is hedged about with much ceremony. 
Michele was a poor, sickly weed and very black ; 
but he had his pride. He would not be seen smok- 
ing a huqa for anything ; and he looked down on 
natives as only a man with seven-eighths native 
blood in his veins can. The Vezzis family had 
their pride, too. They traced their descent from a 


278 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


mythical plate-layer who had worked on the Sone 
Bridge when railways were new in India, and they 
valued their English origin. Michele was a Tele- 
graph Signaller on Rs.35 a month. The fact that 
he was in Government employ made Mrs. Vezzis 
lenient to the shortcomings of his ancestors. 

There was a compromising legend — Dom Anna 
the tailor brought it from Poonani — that a black 
Jew of Cochin had once married into the D’Cruze 
family; while it was an open secret that an uncle 
of Mrs. D’Cruze was, at that very time, doing 
menial work, connected with cooking, for a Club 
in Southern India ! He sent Mrs. D’Cruze seven 
rupees eight annas a month ; but she felt the dis- 
grace to the family very keenly all the same. 

However, in the course of a few Sundays, Mrs. 
Vezzis brought herself to overlook these blemishes 
and gave her consent to the marriage of her 
daughter with Michele, on condition that Michele 
should have at least fifty rupees a month to start 
married life upon. This wonderful prudence must 
have been a lingering touch of the mythical plate- 
layer’s Yorkshire blood ; for across the Borderline 
people take a pride in marrying when they please 
— not when they can. 


HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. 


279 


Having regard to his departmental prospects, 
Miss Vezzis might as well have asked Michele to 
go away and come back with the Moon in his 
pocket. But Michele was deeply in love with Miss 
Vezzis, and that helped him to endure. He ac- 
companied Miss Vezzis to Mass one Sunday, and 
after Mass, walking home through the hot stale 
dust with her hand in his, he swore by several 
Saints whose names would not interest you, never 
to forget Miss Vezzis; and she swore by her 
Honor and the Saints — the oath runs rather curi- 
ously: “In nomine Sanctissimae — ” (whatever 
the name of the she-Saint is) and so forth, ending 
with a kiss on the forehead, a kiss on the left 
cheek, and a kiss on the mouth — never to forget 
Michele. 

Next week Michele was transferred, and Miss 
Vezzis dropped tears upon the window-sash of the 
“Intermediate” compartment as he left the Sta- 
tion. 

If you look at the telegraph-map of India you 
will see a long line skirting the coast from Backer- 
gunge to Madras. Michele was ordered to Tibasu, 
a little Sub-office one-third down this line, to send 
messages on from Berhampur to Chicacola, and to 


28 o 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


think of Miss Vezzis and his chances of getting 
fifty rupees a month out of office-hours. He had 
the noise of the Bay of Bengal and a Bengali Babu 
for company; nothing more. He sent foolish let- 
ters, with crosses tucked inside the flaps of the en- 
velopes, to Miss Vezzis. 

When he had been at Tibasu for nearly three 
weeks his chance came. 

Never forget that unless the outward and vis- 
ible signs of Our Authority are always before a 
native he is as incapable as a child of understand- 
ing what authority means, or where is the danger 
of disobeying it. Tibasu was a forgotten little 
place with a few Orissa Mahommedans in it. 
These, hearing nothing of the Collector-Sahib for 
some time, and heartily despising the Hindu Sub- 
Judge, arranged to start a little Mohurrum riot of 
their own. But the Hindus turned out and broke 
their heads; when, finding lawlessness pleasant, 
Hindus and Mahommedans together raised an 
aimless sort of Donnybrook just to see how far 
they could go. They looted each others’ shops, 
and paid off private grudges in the regular way. 
It was a nasty little riot, but not worth putting in 
the newspapers. 


HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. 


28l 

Michele was working in his office when he 
heard the sound that a man never forgets all his 
life — the “ah-yah” of an angry crowd. [When 
that sound drops about three tones, and changes 
to a thick, droning ut, the man who hears it had 
better go away if he is alone.] The Native Police 
Inspector ran in and told Michele that the town 
was in an uproar and coming to wreck the Tele- 
graph Office. The Babu put on his cap and quiet- 
ly dropped out of the window ; while the Police In- 
spector, afraid, but obeying the old race-instinct 
which recognizes a drop of White blood as far as 
it can be diluted, said, “What orders does the 
Sahib give?” 

The “Sahib” decided Michele. Though hor- 
ribly frightened, he felt that, for the hour, he, the 
man with the Cochin Jew and the menial uncle in 
his pedigree, was the only representative of En- 
glish authority in the place. Then he thought of 
Miss Vezzis and the fifty rupees, and took the sit- 
uation on himself. There were seven native po- 
licemen in Tibasu, and four crazy smooth-bore 
muskets among them. All the men were gray 
with fear, but not beyond leading. Michele 
dropped the key of the telegraph instrument, and 


282 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


went out, at the head of his army, to meet the mob. 
As the shouting crew came round a corner of the 
road, he dropped and fired; the men behind him 
loosing instinctively at the same time. 

The whole crowd — curs to the back-bone — 
yelled and ran ; leaving one man dead, and another 
dying in the road. Michele was sweating with 
fear; but he kept his weakness under, and went 
down into the town, past the house where the Sub- 
Judge had barricaded himself. The streets were 
empty. Tibasu was more frightened than Michele, 
for the mob had been taken at the right time. 

Michele returned to the Telegraph-Office, and 
sent a message to Chicacola asking for help. Be- 
fore an answer came, he received a deputation of 
the elders of Tibasu, telling him that the Sub- 
Judge said his actions generally were ‘ ‘unconsti- 
tutional, ” and trying to bully him. But the heart 
of Michele D’Cruze was big and white in his 
breast, because of his love for Miss Vezzis, the 
nurse-girl, and because he had tasted for the first 
time Responsibility and Success. Those two make 
an intoxicating drink, and have ruined more men 
than ever has whisky. Michele answered that the 
Sub-Judge might say what he pleased, but, until 


HIS CHANCE IN LIFE. 


283 


the Assistant Collector came, the Telegraph Sig- 
naller was the Government of India in Tibasu, and 
the elders of the town would be held accountable 
for further rioting. Then they bowed their heads 
and said, “show mercy !” or words to that effect, 
and went back in great fear; each accusing the 
other of having begun the rioting. 

Early in the dawn, after a night’s patrol with 
his seven policemen, Michele went down the road, 
musket in hand, to meet the Assistant Collector, 
who had ridden in to quell Tibasu. But, in the 
presence of this young Englishman, Michele felt 
himself slipping back more and more into the na- 
tive; and the tale of the Tibasu Riots ended, with 
the strain on the teller, in an hysterical outburst of 
tears, bred by sorrow that he had killed a man, 
shame that he could not feel as uplifted as he had 
felt through the night, and childish anger that his 
tongue could not do justice to> his great deeds. It 
was the White drop in Michele’s veins dying out, 
though he did not know it. 

But the Englishman understood, and, after he 
had schooled those men of Tibasu, and had con- 
ferred with the Sub- Judge till that excellent offi- 
cial turned green, he found time to draft an official 


284 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


letter describing the conduct of Michele. Which 
letter filtered through the Proper Channels, and 
ended in the transfer of Michele up-country once 
more, on the Imperial salary of sixty-six rupees a 
month. 

So he and Miss Vezzis were married with great 
state and ancientry; and now there are several 
little D’ Cruzes sprawling about the verandahs of 
the Central Telegraph Office. 

But if the whole revenue of the Department he 
serves were to be his reward, Michele could never, 
never repeat what he did at Tibasu for the sake of 
Miss Vezzis, the nurse-girl. 

Which proves that, when a man does good 
work out of all proportion to his pay, in seven 
cases out of nine, there is a woman at the back of 
the virtue. 

The two exceptions must have suffered from 
sunstroke. 


A GERM-DESTROYER 


Pleasant it is for the Little Tin Gods 
When great Jove nods; 

But Little Tin Gods make their little mistakes 
In missing the hour when great Jove wakes. 

As a general rule, it is inexpedient to meddle 
with questions of State in a land where men are 
highly paid to work them out for you. This tale 
is a justifiable exception. 

Once in every five years, as you know, we indent 
for a new Viceroy; and each Viceroy imports, 
with the rest of his baggage, a Private Secretary, 
who may or may not be the real Viceroy, just as 
Fate ordains. Fate looks after the Indian Empire 
because it is so big and so helpless. 

There was a Viceroy once, who brought out 
with him a turbulent Private Secretary — a hard 
man with a soft manner and a morbid passion for 
work. This Secretary was called Wonder — John 
Fennil Wonder. The Viceroy possessed no name 
— nothing but a string of counties and two-thirds 


19 


285 


286 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


of the alphabet after them. He said, in confi- 
dence, that he was the electroplated figure-head of 
a golden administration, and he watched in a 
dreamy, amused way Wonder’s attempts to draw 
matters which were entirely outside his province 
into his own hands. “When we are all cherubims 
together,” said His Excellency once, “my dear, 
good friend Wonder will head the conspiracy for 
plucking out Gabriel’s tail-feathers or stealing 
Peter’s keys. Then I shall report him.” 

But, though the Viceroy did nothing to check 
Wonder’s officiousness, other people said unpleas- 
ant things. May be the Members of Council be- 
gan it; but, finally all Simla agreed that there 
was “too much Wonder, and too little Viceroy” 
in that rule. Wonder was always quoting “His 
Excellency.” It was “His Excellency this,” “His 
Excellency that,” “In the opinion of His Excel- 
lency,” and so on. The Viceroy smiled, but he did 
not heed. He said that, so long as his old men 
squabbled with his “dear, good Wonder,” they 
might be induced to leave the Immemorial East 
in peace. 

“No wise man has a policy,” said the Viceroy. 
“A Policy is the blackmail levied on the Fool by 


A GERM-DESTROYER. 28 7 

the Unforeseen. I am not the former, and I do 
not believe in the latter.” 

I do not quite see what this means, unless it 
refers to an Insurance Policy. Perhaps it was the 
Viceroy’s way of saying, “Lie low.” 

That season, came up to Simla one of these 
crazy people with only a single idea. These are 
the men who make things move; but they are 
not nice to talk to. This man’s name was Mellish, 
and he had lived for fifteen years on land of his 
own, in Lower Bengal, studying cholera. He held 
that cholera was a germ that propagated itself 
as it flew through a muggy atmosphere ; and stuck 
in the branches of trees like a wool-flake. The 
germ could be rendered sterile, he said, by “Mel- 
lish’s Own Invincible Fumigatory” — a heavy 
violet-black powder — “the result of fifteen years’ 
scientific investigation, Sir!” 

Inventors seem very much alike as a caste. 
They talk loudly, especially about “conspiracies of 
monopolists they beat upon the table with their 
fists; and they secrete fragments of their inven- 
tions about their persons. 

Mellish said that there was a Medical “Ring” 
at Simla, headed by the Surgeon-General, who 


288 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


was in league, apparently, with all the Hospital 
Assistants in the Empire. I forget exactly how 
he proved it, but it had something to do with 
“skulking up to the Hills;” and what Mellish 
wanted was the independent evidence of the Vice- 
roy — “Steward of our Most Gracious Majesty 
the Queen, Sir.” So Mellish went up to Simla, 
with eighty-four pounds of Fumigatory in his 
trunk, to speak to the Viceroy and to show him 
the merits of the invention. 

But it is easier to see a Viceroy than to talk to 
him, unless you chance to be as important as Mel- 
lishe of Madras. He was a six-thousand-rupee 
man, so great that his daughters never “married.” 
They “contracted alliances.” He himself was not 
paid. He “received emoluments,” and his jour- 
neys about the country were “tours of observa- 
tion.” His business was to stir up the people in 
Madras with a long pole — as you stir up tench in 
a pond — and the people had to come up out of 
their comfortable old ways and gasp — “This is 
Enlightenment and Progress. Isn’t it fine !” Then 
they gave Mellishe statues and jasmine garlands, 
in the hope of getting rid of him. 

Mellishe came up to Simla “to confer with the 


A GERM-DESTROYER. 


289 


Viceroy.” That was one of his perquisites. The 
Viceroy knew nothing of Mellishe except that he 
was “one of those middle class deities who> seem 
necessary to the spiritual comfort of this Para- 
dise of the Middle-classes,” and that, in all proba- 
bility, he had “suggested, designed, founded, 
and endowed all the public institutions in Ma- 
dras.” Which proves that His Excellency, though 
dreamy, had experience of the ways of six-thou- 
sand-rupee men. 

Mellishe’s name was E. Mellishe, and Mellish’s 
was E. S. Mellish, and they were both staying at 
the same hotel, and the Fate that looks after the 
Indian Empire ordained that Wonder should 
blunder and drop the final “e;” that the Chap- 
rassi should help him, and that the note which 
ran — 

Dear Mr. Mellish : — Can you set aside your other en- 
gagements, and lunch with us at two to-morrow? His 
Excellency has an hour at your disposal then. 

should be given to Mellish with the Fumigatory. 
He nearly wept with pride and delight, and at the 
appointed hour cantered to Peterhoff, a big paper- 
bag full of the Fumigatory in his coat-tail pockets. 
He had his chance, and he meant to make the most 


29O KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

of it. Mellishe of Madras had been so portentous- 
ly solemn about his “conference” that Wonder 
had arranged for a private tiffin, — no A.-D.-C.’s, 
no Wonder, no one but the Viceroy, who said 
plaintively that he feared being left alone with un- 
muzzled autocrats like the great Mellishe of 
Madras. 

But his guest did not bore the Viceroy. On the 
contrary, he amused him. Mellish was nervously 
anxious to go straight to his Fumigatory, and 
talked at random until tiffin was over and His 
Excellency asked him to smoke. The Viceroy 
was pleased with Mellish because he did not talk 
“shop.” 

As soon as the cheroots were lit Mellish spoke 
like a man ; beginning with his cholera-theory, re- 
viewing his fifteen years’ “scientific labors,” the 
machinations of the “Simla Ring,” and the ex- 
cellence of his Fumigatory, while the Viceroy 
watched him between half-shut eyes and thought 
— “Evidently this is the wrong tiger ; but it is an 
original animal.” Mellish’s hair was standing on 
end with excitement, and he stammered. He 
began groping in his coat-tails, and, before the 
Viceroy knew what was about to happen he had 


A GERM DESTROYER. 29 1 

tipped a bagful of his powder into the big silver 
ash-tray. 

“J-j-judge for yourself, Sir,” said Mellish. “Y’ 
Excellency shall judge for yourself! Absolutely 
infallible, on my honor.” 

He plunged the lighted end of his cigar into the 
powder, which began to smoke like a volcano, and 
send up fat, greasy wreaths of copper-colored 
smoke. In five seconds the room was filled with 
a most pungent and sickening stench — a reek that 
took fierce hold of the trap of your windpipe and 
shut it. The powder hissed and fizzed, and sent 
out blue and green sparks, and the smoke rose till 
you could neither see, nor breathe, nor gasp. 
Mellish, however, was used to it. 

“Nitrate of strontia,” he shouted; “baryta, 
bone-meal et cetera ! Thousand cubic feet smoke 
per cubic inch. Not a germ could live — not a 
germ, Y’ Excellency !” 

But His Excellency had fled, and was cough- 
ing at the foot of the stairs, while all Peterhoff 
hummed like a hive. Red Lancers came in, and 
the head Chaprassi, who speaks English, came in, 
and mace-bearers came in, and ladies ran down- 
stairs screaming, “Fire!” for the smoke was drift- 


292 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

ing through the house and oozing out of the win- 
dows, and bellying along the verandahs, and 
wreathing and writhing across the gardens. No 
one could enter the room where Mellish was lec- 
turing on his Fumigatory, till that unspeakable 
powder had burned itself out. 

Then an Aide-de-Camp, who desired the V. C., 
rushed through the rolling clouds and hauled Mel- 
lish into the hall. The Viceroy was prostrate with 
laughter, and could only waggle his hands feebly 
at Mellish, who was shaking a fresh bagful of 
powder at him. 

“Glorious ! Glorious !” sobbed His Excellency. 
“Not a germ, as you justly observe, could exist ! I 
can swear it. A magnificent success !” 

Then he laughed till the tears came, and Won- 
der, who had caught the real Mellishe snorting 
on the Mall, entered and was deeply shocked at 
the scene. But the Viceroy was delighted, because 
he saw that Wonder would presently depart. Mel- 
lish with the Fumigatory was also pleased, for 
he felt that he had smashed the Simla Medical 
“Ring.” 

% s)c :Jc >|e 

Few men could a tell a story like His Excel- 


A GERM DESTROYER. 


293 


lency when he took the trouble, and his account 
of “my dear, good Wonder’s friend with the pow- 
der” went the round of Simla, and flippant folk 
made Wonder unhappy by their remarks. 

But His Excellency told the tale once too often 
— for Wonder. As he meant to do. It was at a 
Seepee picnic. Wonder was sitting just behind 
the Viceroy. 

“And I really thought for a moment,” wound 
up His Excellency, “that my dear, good Wonder 
had hired an assassin to clear his way to the 
throne !” 

Every one laughed; but there was a delicate 
sub-tinkle in the Viceroy’s tone which Wonder 
understood. He found that his health was giving 
way; and the Viceroy allowed him to go, and 
presented him with a flaming “character” for use 
at Home among big people. 

“My fault entirely,” said His Excellency, in 
after seasons, with a twinkle in his eye. “My in- 
consistency must always have been distasteful to 
such a masterly man.” 


HIS WEDDED WIFE. 


Cry “Murder!” in the market-place, and each 
Will turn upon his neighbor anxious eyes 
That ask — “Art thou the man?” We hunted Cain, 
Some centuries ago, across the world. 

That bred the fear our own misdeeds maintain 
To-day. — Vib art's Moralities. 

Shakespeare says something about worms, or it 
may be giants or beetles, turning if you tread on 
them too severely. The safest plan is never to 
tread on a worm — not even on the last new sub- 
altern from Home, with his buttons hardly out of 
their tissue-paper, and the red of sappy English 
beef in his cheeks. This is a story of the worm 
that turned. For the sake of brevity, we will 
call Henry Augustus Ramsay Faizanne, “The 
Worm,” though he really was an exceedingly 
pretty boy, without a hair on his face, and with a 
waist like a girl’s, when he came out to the Sec- 
ond “Shikarris” and was made unhappy in several 
ways. The “Shikarris” are a high-caste regiment, 
and you must be able to do things well — play a 

294 


HIS WEDDED WIFE. 295 

banjo, or ride more than a little, or sing, or act — 
to get on with them. 

The Worm did nothing except fall off his pony, 
and knock chips out of gate-posts with his trap. 
Even that became monotonous after a time. He 
objected to whist, cut the cloth at billiards, sang 
out of tune, kept very much to himself, and wrote 
to his Mamma and sisters at Home. Four of these 
five things were vices which the “Shikarris” ob- 
jected to and set themselves to eradicate. Every- 
one knows how subalterns are, by brother subalt- 
erns, softened and not permitted to be ferocious. 
It is good and wholesome, and does no one any 
harm, unless tempers are lost; and then there is 
trouble. There was a man once 

The “Shikarris” shikarred The Worm very 
much, and he bore everything without winking. 
He was so good and so anxious to learn, and 
flushed so pink, that his education was cut short, 
and he was left to his own devices by every one 
except the Senior Subaltern, who continued to 
make life a burden to The Worm. The Senior 
Subaltern meant no harm ; but his chaff was 
coarse and he didn’t quite understand where to 
stop. He had been waiting too long for his Com- 


296 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

pany ; and that always sours a man. And he was 
in love, which made him worse. 

One day, after he had borrowed The Worm’s 
trap for a lady who never existed, had used it 
himself all the afternoon, had sent a note to The 
Worm, purporting to come from the lady, and 
was telling the Mess all about it, The Worm rose 
in his place and said, in his quiet, lady-like voice — 
“That was a very pretty sell; but I’ll lay you a 
month’s pay to a month’s pay when you get your 
step, that I work a sell on you that you’ll remem- 
ber for the rest of your days, and the Regiment 
after you when you’re dead or broke.” The 
Worm wasn’t angry in the least, and the rest of 
the Mess shouted. Then the Senior Subaltern 
looked at The Worm from the boots upwards, and 
down again, and said — “Done, Baby.” The 
Worm held the rest of the Mess to> witness that 
the bet had been taken, and retired into a book 
with a sweet smile. 

Two months passed, and the Senior Subaltern 
still educated The Worm, who began to move 
about a little more as the hot weather came on. I 
have said that the Senior Subaltern was in love. 
The curious thing is that a girl was in love with 


HIS WEDDED WIFE. 


297 


the Senior Subaltern. Though the Colonel said 
awful things, and the Majors snorted, and the 
married Captains looked unutterable wisdom, and 
the Juniors scoffed, those two were engaged. 

The Senior Subaltern was so pleased with get- 
ting his Company and his acceptance at the same 
time that he forgot to bother The Worm. The 
girl was a pretty girl, and had money of her own. 
She does not come into this story at all. 

One night, at the beginning of the hot weather, 
all the Mess, except The Worm, who had gone 
to his own room to write Home letters, were sit- 
ting on the platform outside the Mess House. 
The Band had finished playing, but no one wanted 
to go in. And the Captains’ wives were there also. 
The folly of a man in love is unlimited. The Senior 
Subaltern had been holding forth on the merits 
of the girl he was engaged to, and the ladies were 
purring approval while the men yawned, when 
there was a rustle of skirts in the dark, and a tired, 
faint voice lifted itself. 

“Where’s my husband?” 

I do not wish in the least to reflect on the moral- 
ity of the “Shikarris but it is on record that four 
men jumped up as if they had been shot. Three 


298 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


of them were married men. Perhaps they were 
afraid that their wives had come from Home un- 
beknownst. The fourth said that he had acted 
on the impulse of the moment. He explained this 
afterwards. 

Then the voice cried, “O Lionel !” Lionel was 
the Senior Subaltern’s name. A woman came 
into the little circle of light by the candles on the 
peg-tables, stretching out her hands to the dark 
where the Senior Subaltern was, and sobbing. 
We rose to our feet, feeling that things were go- 
ing to happen and ready to believe the worst. In 
this bad, small world of ours, one knows SO' little 
of the life of the next man — which, after all, is 
entirely his own concern — that one is not sur- 
prised when a crash comes. Anything might turn 
up any day for any one. Perhaps the Senior 
Subaltern had been trapped in his youth. Men 
are crippled that way occasionally. We didn’t 
know; we wanted to hear; and the Captains’ 
wives were as anxious as we. If he had been 
trapped, he was to be excused; for the woman 
from nowhere, in the dusty shoes and gray travel- 
ing dress, was very lovely, with black hair and 
great eyes full of tears. She was tall, with a fine 
figure, and her voice had a running sob in it piti- 


HIS WEDDED WIFE. 299 

fill to hear. As soon as the Senior Subaltern stood 
up, she threw her arms round his neck, and called 
him “my darling,” and said she could not bear 
waiting alone in England, and his letters were so 
short and cold, and she was his to the end of the 
world, and would he forgive her? This did not 
sound quite like a lady’s way of speaking. It 
was too demonstrative. 

Things seemed black indeed, and the Captains’ 
wives peered under their eyebrows at the Senior 
Subaltern, and the Colonel’s face set like the Day 
of Judgment framed in gray bristles, and no one 
spoke for awhile. 

Next the Colonel said, very shortly, “Well, 
Sir ?” and the woman sobbed afresh. The Senior 
Subaltern was half choked with the arms round 
his neck, but he gasped out — “It’s a lie ! I never 
had a wife in my life !” — “Don’t swear,” said the 
Colonel. “Come into the Mess. We must sift 
this clear somehow,” and he sighed to himself, for 
he believed in his “Shikarris,” did the Colonel. 

We trooped into the ante-room, under the full 
lights, and there we saw how beautiful the wom- 
an was. She stood up in the middle of us all, 
sometimes choking with crying, then hard and 


300 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


proud, and then holding out her arms to the 
Senior Subaltern. It was like the fourth act of a 
tragedy. She told us how the Senior Subaltern 
had married her when he was Home on leave 
eighteen months before ; and she seemed to know 
all that we knew, and more, too, of his people and 
his past life. He was white and ashy-gray, try- 
ing now and again to break into the torrent of her 
words; and we, noting how lovely she was and 
what a criminal he looked, esteemed him a beast 
of the worst kind. We felt sorry for him, though. 

I shall never forget the indictment of the Senior 
Subaltern by his wife. Nor will he. It was so 
suddert, rushing out of the dark, unannounced, 
into our dull lives. The Captains’ wives stood 
back; but their eyes were alight, and you could 
see they had already convicted and sentenced the 
Senior Subaltern. The Colonel seemed five years 
older. One Major was shading his eyes with his 
hand and watching the woman from underneath 
it. Another was chewing his moustache and smil- 
ing quietly as if he were witnessing a play. Full 
in the open space in the center, by the whist-tables, 
the Senior Subaltern’s terrier was hunting for 
fleas. I remember all this as clearly as though a 


HIS WEDDED WIFE. 


301 


photograph were in my hand. I remember the 
look of horror on the Senior Subaltern’s face. It 
was rather like seeing a man hanged; but much 
more interesting. Finally, the woman wound up 
by saying that the Senior Subaltern carried a 
double F. M. in tattoo on his left shoulder. We 
all knew that, and, to our innocent minds, it 
seemed to clinch the matter. But one of the 
bachelor Majors said very politely, “I presume 
that your marriage-certificate would be more to the 
purpose ?” 

That roused the woman. She stood up and 
sneered at the Senior Subaltern for a cur, and 
abused the Major and the Colonel and all the rest. 
Then she wept, and then she pulled a paper from 
her breast, saying imperially, “Take that! And 
let my husband — my lawfully wedded husband — 
read it aloud — if he dare !” 

There was a hush, and the men looked into each 
others’ eyes as the Senior Subaltern came forward 
in a dazed and dizzy way, and took the paper. We 
were wondering, as we stared, whether there was 
anything against any one of us that might turn 
up later on. The Senior Subaltern’s throat was 
dry ; but, as he ran his eye over the paper he broke 


20 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


302 

out into a hoarse cackle of relief, and said to> the 
woman, “You young blackguard!” But the 
woman had fled through a door, and on the paper 
was written, “This is to certify that I, The Worm, 
have paid in full my debts to the Senior 
Subaltern, and, further, that the Senior Sub- 
altern is my debtor, by agreement on the 23d 
of February, as by the Mess attested, to the extent 
of one month’s Captain’s pay, in the lawful cur- 
rency of the Indian Empire.” 

Then a deputation set off for The Worm’s 
quarters and found him, betwixt and between, un- 
lacing his stays, with the hat, wig, and serge dress 
on the bed. He came over as he was, and the 
“Shikarris” shouted till the Gunners’ Mess sent 
over to know if they might have a share of the 
fun. I think we were all, except the Colonel and 
the Senior Subaltern, a little disappointed that the 
scandal had come to nothing. But that is human 
nature. There could be no two words about The 
Worm’s acting. It leaned as near to a nasty 
tragedy as anything this side of a joke can. When 
most of the Subalterns sat upon him with sofa- 
cushions to find out why he had not said that 
acting was his strong point, he answered very 


HIS WEDDED WIFE. 


303 


quietly, “I don't think you ever asked me. I used 
to act at Home with my sisters." But no acting 
with girls could account for The Worm’s display 
that night. Personally, I think it was in bad 
taste. Besides being dangerous. There is no sort 
of use in playing with fire, even for fun. 

The “Shikarris” made him President of the 
Regimental Dramatic Club ; and, when the Senior 
Subaltern paid up his debt, which he did at once, 
The Worm sank the money in scenery and 
dresses. He was a good Worm; and the “Shi- 
karris’’ are proud of him. The only drawback 
is that he has been christened “Mrs. Senior Sub- 
altern;’’ and, as there are now two Mrs. Senior 
Subalterns in the Station, this is sometimes con- 
fusing to strangers. 


THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 


While the snaffle holds, or the long-neck stings, 

While the big beam tilts, or the last bell rings, 

While horses are horses to train and to race, 

Then women and wine take a second place 
For me — for me — 

While a short “ten-three” 

Has a field to squander or fence to face! 

—Song of the G. R. 

There are more ways of running a horse to suit 
your book than pulling his head off in the straight. 
Some men forget this. Understand clearly that 
all racing is rotten — as everything connected with 
losing money must be. In India, in addition to 
its inherent rottenness, it has the merit of being 
two-thirds sham; looking pretty on paper only. 
Every one knows every one else far too well for 
business purposes. How on earth can you rack 
and harry a post man for his losings when you 
are fond of his wife, and live in the same Station 
with him ? He says, “On the Monday following,” 
“I can’t settle just yet.” You say, “All right, old 
man,” and think yourself lucky if you pull off nine 

304 


THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 305 

hundred out of a two-thousand-rupee debt. Any 
way you look at it, Indian racing is immoral, and 
expensively immoral. Which is much worse. If 
a man wants your money, he ought to ask for it, 
or send round a subscription-list instead of jug- 
gling about the country with an Australian larri- 
kin ; a “brumby,” with as much breed as the boy ; 
a brace of chumars in gold-laced caps; three or 
four ekka-ponies with hogged manes, and a 
switch-tailed demirep of a mare called Arab be- 
cause she has a kink in her flag. Racing leads to 
the shroff quicker than anything else. But if you 
have no conscience and no sentiments, and good 
hands, and some knowledge of pace, and ten years’ 
experience of horses, and several thousand rupees 
a month, I believe that you can occasionally con- 
trive to pay your shoeing-bills. 

Did you ever know Shackles — b. w. g., 15. 1 § 
— coarse, loose, mule-like ears — barrel as long as 
a gate-post — tough as a telegraph-wire — and the 
queerest brute that ever looked through a bridle? 
He was of no brand, being one of an ear-nicked 
mob taken into the Bucephalus at £4:1 os. a head 
to make up freight, and sold raw and out of condi- 
tion at Calcutta for Rs.275. People who lost 


306 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

money on him called him a “brumby ;” but if ever 
any horse had Harpoon’s shoulders and The Gin’s 
temper, Shackles was that horse. Two miles was 
his own particular distance. He trained himself, 
ran himself, and rode himself; and, if his jockey 
insulted him by giving him hints, he shut up at 
once and bucked the boy off. He objected to dic- 
tation. Two or three of his owners did not under- 
stand this, and lost money in consequence. At last 
he was bought by a man who discovered that, if 
a race was to be won, Shackles, and Shackles only, 
would win it in his own way, so long as his jockey 
sat still. This man had a riding-boy called Brunt 
— a lad from Perth, West Australia — and he 
taught Brunt, with a trainer’s whip, the hardest 
thing a jock can learn— to sit still, to sit still, and 
keep on sitting still. When Brunt fairly grasped 
this truth, Shackles devastated the country. No 
weight could stop him at his own distance; and 
the fame of Shackles spread from Ajmir in the 
South to Chedputter in the North. There was no 
horse like Shackles, so long as he was allowed to 
do his work in his own way. But he was beaten 
in the end ; and the story of his fall is enough to 
make angels weep. 


THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 30 7 

At the lower end of the Chedputter race-course, 
just before the turn into the straight, the track 
passes close to- a couple of old brick-mounds en- 
closing a funnel-shaped hollow. The big end of 
the funnel is not six feet from the railings on the 
off-side. The astonishing peculiarity of the 
course is that, if you stand at one particular place, 
about half a mile away, inside the course, and 
speak at ordinary pitch, your voice just hits the 
funnel of the brick-mounds and makes a curious 
whining echo there. A man discovered this one 
morning by accident while out training with a 
friend. He marked the place to stand and speak 
from with a couple of bricks, and he kept his 
knowledge to himself. Every peculiarity of a 
course is worth remembering in a country where 
rats play the mischief with the elephant-litter, and 
Stewards build jumps to' suit their own stables. 
This man ran a very fairish country-bred, a 
long, racking high mare with the temper of a 
fiend and the paces of an airy, wandering seraph 
— a drifty, glidy stretch. The mare was, as a 
delicate tribute to' Mrs. Reiver, called “The 
Lady Regula Baddun” — or, for short, Regula 
Baddun. 


308 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

Shackles’ jockey, Brunt, was a quite well-be- 
haved boy, but his nerve had been shaken. He 
began his career by riding jump-races in Mel- 
bourne, where a few Stewards want lynching, and 
was one of the jockeys who came through the 
awful butchery — perhaps you will recollect it — of 
the Maribyrnong Plate. The walls were colonial 
ramparts — logs of jarrah spiked into the ma- 
sonry — with wings as strong as Church buttresses. 
Once in his stride, a horse had to jump or fall. He 
couldn’t run out. In the Maribyrnong Plate, 
twelve horses were jammed at the second wall. 
Red Hat, leading, fell this side, and threw out 
The Gled and the ruck came up behind and the 
space between wing and wing was one struggling, 
screaming, kicking shambles. Four jockeys were 
taken out dead ; three were very badly hurt, and 
Brunt was among the three. He told the story 
of the Maribyrnong Plate sometimes; and when 
he described how Whalley on Red Hat, said, as 
the mare fell under him — “God ha’ mercy, I’m 
done for!” and how, next instant, Sithee There 
and White Otter had crushed the life out of poor 
Whalley, and the dust hid men and horses, no one 
marveled that Brunt had dropped jump-races and 


THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 309 

Australia together. Regula Baddun’s owner 
knew that story by heart. Brunt never varied it 
in the telling. He had no education. 

Shackles came to the Chedputter Autumn races 
one year, and his owner walked about insulting the 
sportsmen of Chedputter generally, till they went 
to the Honorary Secretary in a body and said, 
“Appoint handicappers, and arrange a race which 
shall break Shackles and humble the pride of his 
owner.” The Districts rose against Shackles and 
sent up of their best; Ousel, who was supposed to 
be able to do his mile in 1:53; Petard, the stud- 
bred, trained by a cavalry regiment who' knew 
how to train ; Gringalet, the ewe-lamb of the 75th ; 
Bobolink, the pride of the Peshawar; and many 
others. 

They called that race The Broken Link Handi- 
cap, because it was to smash Shackles; and the 
Handicappers piled on the weights, and the Fund 
gave eight hundred rupees, and the distance was 
“around the course for all horses.” Shackles’ 
owner said, “You can arrange the race with re- 
gard to Shackles only. So long as you don’t bury 
him under weight-cloths I don’t mind.” Regula 
Baddun’s owner said, “I throw in my mare to fret 


310 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

Ousel. Six furlongs is Regula’s distance, and she 
will then lie down and die. So also will Ousel, for 
his jockey doesn’t understand a waiting race.’’ 
Now, this was a lie, for Regula had been in work 
for two months at Dehra, and her chances were 
good, always supposing that Shackles broke a 
blood-vessel — or Brunt moved on him. 

The plunging in the lotteries was fine. They 
filled eight thousand-rupee lotteries on the Broken 
Link Handicap, and the account in the Pioneer 
said that “favoritism was divided.” In plain Eng- 
lish, the various contingents were wild on their 
respective horses ; for the Handicappers had done 
their work well. The Honorary Secretary shout- 
ed himself hoarse through the din ; and the smoke 
of the cheroots was like the smoke, and the rat- 
tling of the dice-boxes like the rattle of small-arm 
fire. 

Ten horses started — very level — and Regula 
Baddun’s owner cantered out on his back to a 
place inside the circle of the course, where two 
bricks had been thrown. He faced towards the 
brick-mounds at the lower end of the course and 
waited. 

The story of the running is in the Pioneer. At 


THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 3II 

the end of the first mile, Shackles crept out of the 
ruck, well on the outside, ready to get round the 
turn, lay hold of the bit and spin up the straight 
before the others knew he had got away. Brunt 
was sitting still, perfectly happy, listening to the 
“drum-drum-drum” of the hoofs behind, and 
knowing that, in about twenty strides, Shackles 
would draw one deep breath and go up the last 
half-mile like the “Flying Dutchman.” As 
Shackles went short to take the turn and came 
abreast of the brick-mound, Brunt heard, above 
the noise of the wind in his ears, a whining, wail- 
ing voice on the offside, saying — “God ha’ mercy, 
I’m done for!” In one stride, Brunt saw the 
whole seething smash of the Maribyrnong Plate 
before him, started in his saddle and gave a yell of 
terror. The start brought the heels into Shackles’ 
side, and the scream hurt Shackles’ feelings. He 
couldn’t stop dead; but he put out his feet and 
slid along for fifty yards, and then, very gravely 
and judiciously, bucked off Brunt — a shaking, ter- 
ror-stricken lump, while Regula Baddun made a 
neck-and-neck race with Bobolink up the straight, 
and won by a short head — Petard a bad third. 
Shackles’ owner, in the Stand, tried to think that 


312 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

his field-glasses had gone wrong. Regula Bad- 
dun’s owner, waiting by the two bricks, gave one 
deep sigh of relief, and cantered back tO' the 
Stand. He had won, in lotteries and bets, about 
fifteen thousand. 

It was a Broken Link Handicap with a ven- 
geance. It broke nearly all the men concerned, and 
nearly broke the heart of Shackles’ owner. He 
sent down to interview Brunt. The boy lay, livid 
and gasping with fright, where he had tumbled 
off. The sin of losing the race never seemed to 
strike him. All he knew was that Whalley had 
“called” him, that the “call” was a warning; and, 
were he cut in two for it, he would never get up 
again. His nerve had gone altogether, and he 
only asked his master to give him a good thrash- 
ing and let him go. He was fit for nothing, he 
said. He got his dismissal, and crept up to the 
paddock, white as chalk, with blue lips, his knees 
giving way under him. People said nasty things 
in the paddock ; but Brunt never heeded. He 
changed into tweeds, took his stick and went down 
the road, still shaking with fright, and muttering 
over and over again-— “God ha’ mercy, I’m done 


THE BROKEN LINK HANDICAP. 313 

for!” To the best of my knowledge and belief 
he spoke the truth. 

So now you know how the Broken Link Handi- 
cap was run and won. Of course you don’t believe 
it. You would credit anything about Russia’s 
designs on India, or the recommendations of the 
Currency Commission; but a little bit of soter 
fact is more than you can stand. 


A BANK FRAUD. 


He drank strong waters and his speech was coarse; 

He purchased raiment and forbore to pay; 

He stuck a trusting junior with a horse, 

And won Gymkhanas in a doubtful way. 

Then, ’twixt a vice and folly, turned aside 
To do good deeds and straight to cloak them, lied. 

— The Mess Room. 

If Reggie Burke were in India now, he would 
resent this tale being told ; but as he is in Hong- 
kong and won’t see it, the telling is safe. He was 
the man who worked the big fraud on the Sind 
and Sialkote Bank. He was manager of an up- 
country Branch, and a sound, practical man with 
a large experience of native loan and insurance 
work. He could combine the frivolities of ordi- 
nary life with his work, and yet do well. Reggie 
Burke rode anything that would let him up, 
danced as neatly as he rode, and was wanted for 
every sort of amusement in the Station. 

As he said himself, and as many men found 
out rather to their surprise, there were two 

314 


A BANK FRAUD. 3 1 5 

Burkes, both very much at your service. “Reggie 
Burke,” between four and ten, ready for anything 
from a hot- weather gymkhana to a riding-picnic, 
and, between ten and four, “Mr. Reginald Burke, 
Manager of the Sind and Sialkote Branch Bank.” 
You might play polo- with him one afternoon and 
hear him express his opinions when a man 
crossed ; and you might call on him next morning 
to raise a two-thousand-rupee loan on a five-hun- 
dred-pound insurance policy, eighty pounds paid 
in premiums. He would recognize you, but you 
would have some trouble in recognizing him. 

The Directors of the Bank — it had its headquar- 
ters in Calcutta and its General Manager's word 
carried weight with the Government — picked their 
men well. They had tested Reggie up to a fairly 
severe breaking-strain. They trusted him just as 
much as Directors ever trust Managers. You 
must see for yourself whether their trust was mis- 
placed. 

Reggie’s Branch was in a big Station, and 
worked with the usual staff — one Manager, one 
Accountant, both English, a Cashier, and a horde 
of native clerks; besides the Police patrol at 
nights outside. The bulk of its work, for it was 


316 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

in a thriving district, was hoondi and accommo- 
dation of all kinds. A fool has no grip of this 
sort of business ; and a clever man who does not 
go about among his clients, and know more than a 
little of their affairs, is worse than a fool. Reggie 
was young-looking, clean-shaved, with a twinkle 
in his eye, and a head that nothing short of a 
gallon of the Gunners’ Madeira could make any 
impression on. 

One day, at a big dinner, he announced casually 
that the Directors had shifted on to him a Natural 
Curiosity, from England, in the Accountant line. 
He was perfectly correct. Mr. Silas Riley, Ac- 
countant, was a most curious animal — a long, 
gawky, raw-boned Yorkshireman, full of the sav- 
age self-conceit that blossoms only in the best 
county in England. Arrogance was a mild word 
for the mental attitude of Mr. S. Riley. He had 
worked himself up, after seven years, to a Cash- 
ier’s position in a Huddersfield Bank ; and all his 
experience lay among the factories of the North. 
Perhaps he would have done better on the Bom- 
bay side, where they are happy with one-half per 
cent profits, and money is cheap. He was useless 
for Upper India and a wheat Province, where a 


A BANK FRAUD. 


3 J 7 


man wants a large head and a touch of imagina- 
tion if he is to turn out a satisfactory balance- 
sheet. 

He was wonderfully narrow-minded in busi- 
ness, and, being new to the country, had no notion 
that Indian banking is totally distinct from Home 
work. Like most clever self-made men, he had 
much simplicity in his nature; and, somehow or 
other, had construed the ordinarily polite terms of 
his letter of engagement into a belief that the Di- 
rectors had chosen him on account of his special 
and brilliant talents, and that they set great store 
by him. This notion grew and crystallized ; thus 
adding to his natural North-country conceit. Fur- 
ther, he was delicate, suffered from some trouble 
in his chest, and was short in his temper. 

You will admit that Reggie had reason to call 
his new Accountant a Natural Curiosity. The 
two men failed to hit it off at all. Riley consid- 
ered Reggie a wild, feather-headed idiot, given to 
Heaven only knew what dissipation in low places 
called “Messes,” and totally unfit for the serious 
and solemn vocation of banking. He could never 
get over Reggie’s look of youth ; and he couldn’t 
understand Reggie’s friends — clean-built, careless 


21 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


318 

men in the Army — who' rode over to big Sunday 
breakfasts at the Bank, and told sultry stories till 
Riley got up and left the room. Riley was always 
showing Reggie how the business ought to be con- 
ducted, and Reggie had more than once to remind 
him that seven years’ limited experience between 
Huddersfield and Beverley did not qualify a man 
to steer a big up-country business. Then Riley 
sulked, and referred to himself as a pillar of the 
Bank and a cherished friend of the Directors, and 
Reggie tore his hair. If a man’s English subor- 
dinates fail him in India, he comes to a hard time 
indeed, for native help has strict limitations. In 
the winter Riley went sick for weeks at a time 
with his lung complaint, and this threw more 
work on Reggie. But he preferred it to the ever- 
lasting friction when Riley was well. 

One of the Traveling Inspectors of the Bank 
discovered these collapses and reported them to 
the Directors. Now, Riley had been foisted on 
the Bank by an M. P., who wanted the support of 
Riley’s father, who, again, was anxious to get 
his son out to a warmer climate because of those 
lungs. The M. P. had interest in the Bank ; but 
one of the Directors wanted to advance a nominee 


A BANK FRAUD. 


3*9 


of his own ; and, after Riley's father had died he 
made the rest of the Board see that an Accountant 
who was sick for half the year had better give 
place to a healthy man. If Riley had known the 
real story of his appointment, he might have be- 
haved better ; but, knowing nothing, his stretches 
of sickness alternated with restless, persistent, 
meddling irritation of Reggie, and all the hundred 
ways in which conceit in a subordinate situation 
can find play. Reggie used to call him striking 
and hair-curling names behind his back as a re- 
lief to his own feelings ; but he never abused him 
to his face, because he said, “Riley is such a frail 
beast that half of his loathsome conceit is due to 
pains in the chest." 

Late one April, Riley went very sick indeed. 
The Doctor punched him and thumped him, and 
told him he would be better before long. Then 
the Doctor went to Reggie and said — “Do you 
know how sick your Accountant is?" — “No!" 
said Reggie — “The worse the better, confound 
him! He's a clacking nuisance when he’s well. 
I’ll let you take away the Bank Safe if you can 
drug him silent for this hot weather." 

But the Doctor did not laugh — “Man, I’m not 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


320 

joking/’ he said. ‘‘I’ll give him another three 
months in his bed and a week or so more to die 
in. On my honor and reputation that’s all the 
grace he has in this world. Consumption has hold 
of him to the marrow.” 

Reggie’s face changed at once into the face of 
“Mr. Reginald Burke,” and he answered, “What 
can I do?” — “Nothing,” said the Doctor. “For 
all practical purposes the man is dead already. 
Keep him quiet and cheerful, and tell him he’s go- 
ing to recover. That’s all. I’ll look after him to 
the end, of course.” 

The Doctor went away, and Reggie sat down 
to open the evening mail. His first letter was one 
from the Directors, intimating for his information 
that Mr. Riley was to resign, under a month’s no- 
tice, by the terms of his agreement, telling Reggie 
that their letter to Riley would follow, and advis- 
ing Reggie of the coming of a new Accountant, a 
man whom Reggie knew and liked. 

Reggie lit a cheroot, and, before he had finished 
smoking, he had sketched the outline of a fraud. 
He put away — burked — the Directors’ letter, and 
went in to talk to Riley, who was as ungracious as 
usual, and fretting himself over the way the Bank 


A BANK FRAUD. 


3 21 


would run during his illness. He never thought 
of the extra work on Reggie’s shoulders, but sole- 
ly of the damage to his own prospects of advance- 
ment. Then Reggie assured him that everything 
would be well, and that he, Reggie, would confer 
with Riley daily on the management of the Bank. 
Riley was a little soothed, but he hinted in as 
many words that he did not think much of Reg- 
gie’s business capacity. Reggie was humble. And 
he had letters in his desk from the Directors that 
a Gilbarte or a Hardie might have been proud of ! 

The days passed in the big darkened house, and 
the Directors’ letter of dismissal to Riley came and 
was put away by Reggie, who, every evening, 
brought the books to Riley’s room, and showed 
him what had been going forward, while Riley 
snarled. Reggie did his best to make statements 
pleasing to Riley, but the Accountant was sure 
that the Bank was going to rack and ruin without 
him. In June, as the lying in bed told on his 
spirit, he asked whether his absence had been 
noted by the Directors, and Reggie said that they 
had written most sympathetic letters, hoping that 
he would be able to resume his valuable services 
before long. He showed Riley the letters; and 


322 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

Riley said that the Directors ought to have writ- 
ten to him direct. A few days later Reggie 
opened Riley’s mail in the half-light of the room, 
and gave him the sheet — not the envelope — of a 
letter to Riley from the Directors. Riley said he 
would thank Reggie not to interfere with his pri- 
vate papers, specially as Reggie knew he was too 
weak to open his own letters. Reggie apologized. 

Then Riley’s mood changed, and he lectured 
Reggie on his evil ways: his horses and his bad 
friends. “Of course, lying here, on my back, Mr. 
Burke, I can’t keep you straight; but when I’m 
well, I do hope you’ll pay some heed to my 
words.” Reggie, who had dropped polo, and din- 
ners, and tennis and all, to attend to Riley, said 
that he was penitent and settled Riley’s head on 
the pillow and heard him fret and contradict in 
hard, dry, hacking whispers, without a sign of im- 
patience. This, at the end of a heavy day’s office 
work, doing double duty, in the latter half of 
June. 

When the new Accountant came, Reggie told 
him the facts of the case, and axinounced to Riley 
that he had a guest staying with him. Riley said 
that he might have had more consideration than 


A BANK FRAUD. 323 

to entertain his “doubtful friends” at such a time. 
Reggie made Carron, the new Accountant, sleep 
at the Club in consequence. Carron’s arrival took 
some of the heavy work off his shoulders, and 
he had time to attend to Riley’s exactions — to 
explain, soothe, invent, and settle and re-settle the 
poor wretch in bed, and to forge complimentary 
letters from Calcutta. At the end of the first month 
Riley wished to send some money home to his 
mother. Reggie sent the draft. At the end of 
the second month Riley’s salary came in just the 
same. Reggie paid it out of his own pocket, and, 
with it, wrote Riley a beautiful letter from the 
Directors. 

Riley was very ill indeed, but the flame of his 
life burnt unsteadily. Now and then he would 
be cheerful and confident about the future, sketch- 
ing plans for going Home and seeing his mother. 
Reggie listened patiently when the office-work 
was over, and encouraged him. 

At other times Riley insisted on Reggie read- 
ing the Bible and grim “Methody” tracts to him. 
Out of these tracts he pointed morals directed at 
his Manager. But he always found time to worry 
Reggie about the working of the Bank, and to 


324 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

show him where the weak points lay. This in- 
door, sickroom life and constant strains wore Reg- 
gie down a good deal, and shook his nerves, and 
lowered his billiard play by forty points. But the 
business of the Bank, and the business of the sick- 
room had to go on, though the glass was 116 de- 
grees in the shade. 

At the end of the third month Riley was sink- 
ing fast, and had begun to realize that he was very 
sick. But the conceit that made him worry Reggie 
kept him from believing the worst. “He wants 
some sort of mental stimulant if he is to drag on,” 
said the Doctor. “Keep him interested in life if 
you care about his living.” So Riley, contrary to 
all the laws of business and finance, received a 25 
per cent rise of salary from the Directors. The 
“mental stimulant” succeeded beautifully. Riley 
was happy and cheerful, and, as is often the case 
in consumption, healthiest in mind when the body 
is weakest. He lingered for a full month, snarl- 
ing and fretting about the Bank, talking of the 
future, hearing the Bible read, lecturing Reggie 
on sin, and wondering when he would be able to 
move abroad. 

But at the end of September, one mercilessly 


A BANK FRAUD. 


325 


hot evening, he rose up in his bed with a little 
gasp, and said quickly to Reggie — “Mr. Burke, 
I am going to die. I know it myself. My chest 
is all hollow inside, and there’s nothing to breathe 
with. To the best of my knowledge I have done 
nowt,” — he was returning to the talk of his boy- 
hood — “to lie heavy on my conscience. God be 
thanked, I have been preserved from the grosser 
forms of sin; and I counsel you, Mr. Burke 

a 

Here his voice died down, and Reggie stooped 
over him. 

“Send my salary for September to my Mother 
. . . done great things with the Bank if I 

had been spared . . . mistaken policy . . . 
no fault of mine. . . 

Then he turned his face to the wall and died. 

Reggie drew the sheet over Its face, and went 
out into the verandah, with his last “mental stimu- 
lant” — a letter of condolence and sympathy from 
the Directors — unused in his pocket. 

“If I’d been only ten minutes earlier,” thought 
Reggie, “I might have heartened him up to pull 
through another day.” 


TODS’ AMENDMENT. 


The World hath set its heavy yoke 
Upon the old white-bearded folk 
Who strive to please the King. 

God’s mercy is upon the young, 

God’s wisdom in the baby tongue 
That fears not anything. 

— The Parable of Chajju Bhagat % 

Now, Tods’ Mamma was a singularly charming 
woman, and every one in Simla knew Tods. Most 
men had saved him from death on occasions. He 
was beyond his ayah’s control altogether, and 
periled his life daily to find out what would hap- 
pen if you pulled a Mountain Battery mule’s tail. 
He was an utterly fearless young Pagan, about six 
yearsvold, and the only baby who ever broke the 
holy calm of the Supreme Legislative Council. 

It happened this way : Tods’ pet kid got loose, 
and fled up the hill, off the Boileaugunge Road, 
Tods after it, until it burst in to the Viceregal 
Lodge lawn, then attached to “Peterhoff.” The 
Council were sitting at the time, and the windows 

were open because it was warm. The Red Lan- 
326 


tods' amendment. 32 7 

cer in the porch told Tods to go away; but Tods 
knew the Red Lancer and most of the Members 
of the Council personally. Moreover, he had firm 
hold of the kid’s collar, and was being dragged 
all across the flower-beds. “Give my salaam to 
the long Councillor Sahib, and ask him to help me 
take Moti back!” gasped Tods. The Council 
heard the noise through the open windows; and, 
after an interval, was seen the shocking spectacle 
of a Legal Member and a Lieutenant-Governor 
helping, under the direct patronage of a Com- 
mander-in-Chief and a Viceroy, one small and 
very dirty boy in a sailor’s suit and a tangle of 
brown hair, to coerce a lively and rebellious kid. 
They headed it off down the path to the Mall, and 
Tods went home in triumph and told his Mamma 
that all the Councillor Sahibs had been helping 
him to catch Moti. Whereat his Mamma smacked 
Tods for interfering with the administration of 
the Empire; but Tods met the Legal Member 
the next day, and told him in confidence that if 
the Legal Member ever wanted to catch a goat, he, 
Tods, would give him all the help in his power. 
“Thank you, Tods,” said the Legal Member. 

Tods was the idol of some eighty jhampanis, 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


328 

and half as many saises. He saluted them all as 
“O Brother.”’ It never entered his head that any 
living human being could disobey his orders ; and 
he was the buffer between the servants and his 
Mamma's wrath. The working of that household 
turned on Tods, who was adored by every one 
from the dhoby to the dog-boy. Even Futteh 
Khan, the villainous loafer khit from Mussoorie, 
shirked risking Tods’ displeasure for fear his co- 
mates should look down on him. 

So Tods had honor in the land from Boileau- 
gunge to Chota Simla, and ruled justly according 
to his lights. Of course, he spoke Urdu, but he 
had also mastered many queer side-speeches like 
the chotee bolee of the women, and held grave 
converse with shopkeepers and Hill-coolies alike. 
He was precocious for his age, and his mixing 
with natives had taught him some of the more 
bitter truths of life : the meanness and the sordid- 
ness of it. He used, over his bread and milk, to 
deliver solemn and serious aphorisms, translated 
from the vernacular into the English, that made 
his Mamma jump and vow that Tods must go 
Home next hot weather. 

Just when Tods was in the bloom of his power, 



Page 327 

He had hold of the kid's collar , and was being 
dragged across the flower-beds 


mSSm 



tods' amendment. 329 

the Supreme Legislature were hacking out a Bill 
for the Sub-Montane Tracts, a revision of the 
then Act, smaller than the Punjab Land Bill, but 
affecting a few hundred thousand people none the 
less. The Legal Member had built, and bolstered, 
and embroidered, and amended that Bill, till it 
looked beautiful on paper. Then the Council be- 
gan to settle what they called the “minor details.” 
As if any Englishman legislating for natives 
knows enough to know which are the minor and 
which are the major points, from the native point 
of view, of any measure! That Bill was a tri- 
umph of “safeguarding the interests of the ten- 
ant.” One clause provided that land should not 
be leased on longer terms than five years at a 
stretch; because, if the landlord had a tenant 
bound down for, say, twenty years, he would 
squeeze the very life out of him. The notion was 
to keep up a stream of independent cultivators in 
the Sub-Montane Tracts; and ethnologically and 
politically the notion was correct. The only draw- 
back was that it was altogether wrong. A na- 
tive's life in India implies the life of his son. 
Wherefore, you cannot legislate for one genera- 
tion at a time. You must consider the next from 


330 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

the native point of view. Curiously enough, the 
native now and then, and in Northern India more 
particularly, hates being over-protected against 
himself. There was a Naga village once, where 
they lived on dead and buried Commissariat 
mules. . . . But that is another story. 

For many reasons, to be explained later, the 
people concerned objected to the Bill. The Na- 
tive Member in Council knew as much about Pun- 
jabis as he knew about Charing Cross. He had 
said in Calcutta that “the Bill was entirely in 
accord with the desires of that large and impor- 
tant class, the cultivators and so on, and so on. 
The Legal Member’s knowledge of natives was 
limited to English-speaking Durbaris and his own 
red chaprassis, the Sub-Montane Tracts concerned 
no one in particular, the Deputy Commissioners 
were a good deal too driven to make representa- 
tions, and the measure was one which dealt with 
small land-holders only. Nevertheless, the Legal 
Member prayed that it might be correct, for he 
was a nervously conscientious man. He did not 
know that no man can tell what natives think un- 
less he mixes with them with the varnish off. 
And not always then. But he did the best he 


tods' amendment. 331 

knew. And the measure came up to the Supreme 
Council for the final touches, while Tods patrolled 
the Burra Simla Bazar in his morning rides, and 
played with the monkey belonging to* Ditta Mull, 
the bunnia, and listened, as a child listens, to all 
the stray talk about this new freak of the Lord 
Sahib’s. 

One day there was a dinner-party at the house 
of Tods’ Mamma, and the Legal Member came. 
Tods was in bed, but he kept awake till he heard 
the bursts of laughter from the men over the cof- 
fee. Then he paddled out in his little red flannel 
dressing-gown and his night-shirt and took refuge 
by the side of his father, knowing that he would 
not be sent back. “See the miseries of having a 
family!” said Tods’ father, giving Tods three 
prunes, some water in a glass that had been used 
for claret, and telling him to sit still. Tods sucked 
the prunes slowly, knowing that he would have to 
go when they were finished, and sipped the pink 
water like a man of the world, as he listened to 
the conversation. Presently, the Legal Member, 
talking “shop” to the Head of a Department, men- 
tioned his Bill by its full name — “The Sub-Mon- 
tane Tracts Ryotwary Revised Enactment.” Tods 


332 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

caught the one native word and lifting up his small 
voice said — 

“Oh, I know all about that ! Has it been murra- 
mutted yet, Councillor Sahib?” 

“How much?” said the Legal Member. 

“Murramutted — mended. — Put theek, you 
know — made nice to please Ditta Mull !” 

The Legal Member left his place and moved up 
next to Tods. 

“What do you know about ryotwari, little 
man?” he said. 

“I’m not a little man, I’m Tods, and I know all 
about it. Ditta Mull, and Choga Lall, and Amir 
Nath, and — oh, lakhs of my friends tell me about 
it in the bazars when I talk to them.” 

“Oh, they do — do they? What do they say, 
Tods?” 

Tods tucked his feet under his red flannel dress- 
ing-gown and said — “I must fink.” 

The Legal Member waited patiently. Then 
Tods with infinite compassion — 

“You don’t speak my talk, do you, Councillor 
Sahib?” 

“No; I am sorry to say I do not,” said the Legal 
Member. 


tods' amendment. 


333 

“Very well,” said Tods, “I must fink in En- 
glish.” 

He spent a minute putting his ideas in order, 
and began very slowly, translating in his mind 
from the vernacular to English, as many Anglo- 
Indian children do. You must remember that the 
Legal Member helped him on by questions when 
he halted, for Tods was not equal to the sustained 
flight of oratory that follows : 

“Ditta Mull says, ‘This thing is the talk of a 
child, and was made up by fools.’ But I don’t 
think you are a fool, Councillor Sahib,” said Tods 
hastily. “You caught my goat. This is what 
Ditta Mull says — ‘I am not a fool, and why should 
the Sirkar say I am a child ? I can see if the land 
is good and if the landlord is good. If I am a fool, 
the sin is upon my own head. For five years I 
take my ground for which I have saved money, 
and a wife I take too, and a little son is born.’ 
Ditta Mull has one daughter now, but he says he 
will have a son soon. And he says, ‘At the end of 
five years, by this new bundobust, I must go. If I 
do not go, I must get fresh seals and takkus- 
stamps on the papers, perhaps in the middle of the 
harvest, and to go to the law-courts once is wis- 


22 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


334 

dom, but to go twice is Jehannum.’ That is quite 
true/’ explained Tods gravely. “All my friends 
say so. And Ditta Mull says, ‘Always fresh 
takkus and paying money to vakils and chaprassis 
and law-courts every five years, or else the land- 
lord makes me go. Why do I want to go ? Am I 
a fool? If I am a fool and do not know, after 
forty years, good land when I see it, let me die! 
But if the new bundobust says for fifteen years, 
that is good and wise. My little son is a man, 
and I am burnt, and he takes the ground or an- 
other ground, paying only once for the takkus- 
stamps on the papers, and his little son is born, and 
at the end of fifteen years is a man too. But what 
profit is there in five years and fresh papers? 
Nothing but dikh, trouble, dikh. We are not 
young men who take these lands, but old ones — 
not farmers, but tradesmen with a little money — 
and for fifteen years we shall have peace. Nor are 
we children that the Sirkar should treat us so.’ ” 

Here Tods stopped short, for the whole table 
were listening. The Legal Member said to Tods, 
“Is that all?” 

“All I can remember,” said Tods. “But you 


tods' amendment. 335 

should see Ditta Mull's big monkey. It's just like 
a Councillor Sahib." 

“Tods ! Go to bed," said his father. 

Tods gathered up his dressing-gown tail and 
departed. 

The Legal Member brought his hand down on 
the table with a crash — “By Jove !" said the Legal 
Member, “I believe the boy is right. The short 
tenure is the weak point." 

He left early, thinking over what Tods had said. 
Now, it was obviously impossible for the Legal 
Member to play with a bunnia’s monkey, by way 
of getting understanding; but he did better. He 
made inquiries, always bearing in mind the fact 
that the real native — not the hybrid, University- 
trained mule — is as timid as a colt, and, little by 
little, he coaxed some of the men whom the 
measure concerned most intimately to give in their 
views, which squared very closely with Tods' evi- 
dence. 

So the bill was amended in that clause ; and the 
Legal Member was filled with an uneasy suspicion 
that Native Members represent very little except 
the Orders they carry on their bosoms. But he 


336 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

put the thought from him as illiberal. He was a 
most Liberal man. 

After a time, the news spread through the 
bazars that Tods had got the Bill recast in the 
tenure-clause, and if Tods’ Mamma had not inter- 
fered, Tods would have made himself sick on the 
baskets of fruit and pistachio nuts and Cabuli 
grapes and almonds that crowded the verandah. 
Till he went Home, Tods ranked some few de- 
grees before the Viceroy in popular estimation. 
But for the little life of him Tods could not under- 
stand why. 

In the Legal Member’s private-paper-box still 
lies the rough draft of the Sub-Montane Tracts 
Ryotwary Revised Enactment ; and, opposite the 
twenty-second clause, penciled in blue chalk, and 
signed by the Legal Member, are the words, 
“Tods’ Amendment.” 


A FRIEND’S FRIEND. 


Wherefore slew you the stranger? He brought me dis- 
honor. 

I saddled my mare Bijli. I set him upon her. 

I gave him rice and goat’s flesh. He bared me to laughter; 
When he was gone from my tent, swift I followed after, 
Taking a sword in my hand. The hot wine had filled him: 
Under the stars he mocked me. Therefore I killed him. 

— Hadramauti. 

This tale must be told in the first person for 
many reasons. The man whom I want to expose 
is Tranter of the Bombay side. I want Tranter 
black-balled at his Club, divorced from his wife, 
turned out of Service, and cast into prison, until I 
get an apology from him in writing. I wish to 
warn the world against Tranter of the Bombay 
side. 

You know the casual way in which men pass on 
acquaintances in India ? It is a great convenience, 
because you can get rid of a man you don’t like by 
writing a letter of introduction and putting him, 
with it, into the train. T. G.’s are best treated 
thus. If you keep them moving, they have no time 
337 


33^ KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

to say insulting and offensive things about “An- 
glo-Indian Society/’ 

One day, late in the cold weather, I got a letter 
of preparation from Tranter of the Bombay side, 
advising me of the advent of a T. G., a man called 
Jevon; and saying, as usual, that any kindness 
shown to Jevon would be a kindness to Tranter. 
Every one knows the regular form of these com- 
munications. 

Two days afterwards, Jevon turned up with his 
letter of introduction, and I did what I could for 
him. He was lint-haired, fresh-colored, and very 
English. But he held no views about the Govern- 
ment of India. Nor did he insist on shooting 
tigers on the Station Mall, as some T. G.’s do. 
Nor did he call us “colonists,” and dine in a flan- 
nel-shirt and tweeds, under that delusion as other 
T. G.’s do. He was well behaved and very grate- 
ful for the little I won for him — most grateful of 
all when I secured him an invitation for the Af- 
ghan Ball, and introduced him to a Mrs. Deemes, 
a lady for whom I had a great respect and admira- 
tion, who danced like the shadow of a leaf in a 
light wind. I set great store by the friendship of 
Mrs. Deemes ; but, had I known what was coming, 


a friend's friend. 


339 

I would have broken Jevon’s neck with a curtain- 
pole before getting him that invitation. 

But I did not know, and he dined, at the Club, 
I think, on the night of the ball. I dined at home. 
When I went to the dance, the first man I met 
asked me whether I had seen Jevon. “No/’ said 
I. “He’s at the Club. Hasn’t he come?” — 
“Come!” said the man. “Yes, he’s very much 
come. You’d better look at him.” 

I sought for Jevon. I found him sitting on a 
bench and smiling to himself and a programme. 
Half a look enough for me. On that one night, of 
all others, he had begun a long and thirsty even- 
ing by taking too much ! He was breathing heav- 
ily through his nose, his eyes were rather red, and 
he appeared very satisfied with all the earth. I 
put up a little prayer that the waltzing would work 
off the wine, and went about programme-filling, 
feeling uncomfortable. But I saw Jevon walk up 
to Mrs. Deemes for the first dance, and I knew 
that all the waltzing on the card was not enough 
to keep Jevon’s rebellious legs steady. That 
couple went round six times. I counted. Mrs. 
Deemes dropped Jevon’s arm and came across to 


me. 


340 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


I am not going to repeat what Mrs. Deemes said 
to me ; because she was very angry indeed. I am 
not going to write what I said to Mrs. Deemes, be- 
cause I didn’t say anything. I only wished that I 
had killed Jevon first and been hanged for it. 
Mrs. Deemes drew her pencil through all the 
dances that I had booked with her, and went away, 
leaving me to remember that what I ought to have 
said was that Mrs. Deemes had asked to be intro- 
duced to Jevon because he danced well ; and that I 
really had not carefully worked out a plot to get 
her insulted. But I felt that argument was no 
good, and that I had better try to stop Jevon from 
waltzing me into more trouble. He, however, was 
gone, and about every third dance I set off to hunt 
for him. This ruined what little pleasure I ex- 
pected from the entertainment. 

Just before supper I caught Jevon, at the buffet 
with his legs wide apart, talking to a very fat and 
indignant chaperone. “If this person is a friend 
of yours, as I understand he is, I would recom- 
mend you to take him home,” said she. “He is 
unfit for decent society.” Then I knew that good- 
ness only knew what Jevon had been doing, and I 
tried to get him away. 


a friend's friend. 


341 


But Jevon wasn’t going ; not he. He knew what 
was good for him, he did ; and he wasn’t going to 
be dictated to by any loconial nigger-driver, he 
wasn’t ; and I was the friend who had formed his 
infant mind and brought him up to buy Benares 
brassware and fear God, so I was ; and we would 
have many more blazing good drunks together, so 
we would ; and all the she-camels in black silk in 
the world shouldn’t make him withdraw his opin- 
ion that there was nothing better than Benedictine 
to give one an appetite. And then . . . but he 
was my guest. 

I set him in a quiet corner of the supper-room, 
and went to find a wall-prop that I could trust. 
There was & good and kindly Subaltern — may 
Heaven bless that Subaltern, and make him a 
Commander-in-Chief ! — who heard of my trouble. 
He was not dancing himself, and he owned a head 
like five-year-old teak-baulks. He said that he 
would look after Jevon till the end of the ball. 

“Don’t suppose you much mind what I do with 
him?” said he. 

“Mind!” said I. “No! You can murder the 
beast if you like.” 

But the Subaltern did not murder him. He 


34 2 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

trotted off to the supper-room, and sat down by 
Jevon, drinking peg for peg with him. I saw the 
two fairly established and went away, feeling more 
easy. 

When “The Roast Beef of Old England” 
sounded, I heard of Jevon’s performances between 
the first dance and my meeting with him at the 
buffet. After Mrs. Deemes had cast him off, it 
seems that he had found his way into the gallery, 
and offered to conduct the Band or to play any in- 
strument in it, just as the Bandmaster pleased. 

When the Bandmaster refused, Jevon said that 
he wasn’t appreciated, and he yearned for sympa- 
thy. So he trundled downstairs and sat out four 
dances with four girls, and proposed to three of 
them. One of the girls was a married woman by 
the way. Then he went into the whist-room, and 
fell face-down and wept on the hearth-rug in front 
of the fire, because he had fallen into a den of card- 
sharpers, and his Mamma had always warned him 
against bad company. He had done a lot of other 
things, too, and had taken about three quarts of 
mixed liquors. Besides, speaking of me in the 
most scandalous fashion ! 

All the women wanted him turned out, and all 


a friend's friend. 343 

the men wanted him kicked. The worst of it was, 
that every one said it was my fault. Now, I put it 
to you how on earth could I have known that this 
innocent, fluffy T. G. would break out in this dis- 
gusting manner? You see he had gone round the 
world nearly, and his vocabulary of abuse was cos- 
mopolitan, though mainly Japanese which he had 
picked up in a low tea-house at Hakodate. It 
sounded like whistling. 

While I was listening to first one man and then 
another telling me of Jevon’s shameless behavior 
and asking me for his' blood, I wondered where he 
was. I was prepared to sacrifice him to Society on 
the spot. 

But Jevon was gone, and, far away in the corner 
of the supper-room, sat my dear, good Subaltern, 
a little flushed, eating salad. I went over and said, 
“Where's Jevon?" — “In the cloakroom," said the 
Subaltern. “He'll keep till the women have gone. 
Don't you interfere with my prisoner." I didn't 
want to interfere, but I peeped into the cloakroom, 
and found my guest put to bed on some rolled-up 
carpets, all comfy, his collar free, and a wet swab 
on his head. 

The rest of the evening I spent in making timid 


344 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


attempts to explain things to Mrs. Deemes and 
three or four other ladies, and trying to clear my 
character — for I am a respectable man — from the 
shameful slurs that my guest had cast upon it. 
Libel was no word for what he had said. 

When I wasn’t trying to explain, I was running 
off to the cloakroom to see that Jevon wasn’t dead 
of apoplexy. I didn’t want him to die on my 
hands. He had eaten my salt. 

At last that ghastly ball ended, though I was 
not in the least restored to Mrs. Deemes’ favor. 
When the ladies had gone, and some one was call- 
ing for songs at the second supper, that angelic 
Subaltern told the servants to bring in the Sahib 
who was in the cloak room, and clear away one end 
of the supper-table. While this was being done, 
we formed ourselves into a Board of Punishment 
with the Doctor for President. 

Jevon came in on four men’s shoulders, and was 
put down on the table like a corpse in a dissecting- 
room, while the Doctor lectured on the evils of in- 
temperance and Jevon snored. Then we set to 
work. 

We corked the whole of his face. We filled his 
hair with meringue-cream till it looked like a white 


a friend's friend. 


345 


wig. To protect everything till it dried, a man in 
the Ordnance Department, who understood the 
work, luted a big blue paper cap from a cracker, 
with meringue-cream, low down on Jevon’s fore- 
head. This was punishment, not play, remember. 
We took gelatine off crackers, and stuck blue 
gelatine on his nose, and yellow gelatine on his 
chin, and green and red gelatine on his cheeks, 
pressing each dab down till it held as firm as gold- 
beaters’ skin. 

We put a ham-frill round his neck, and tied it in 
a bow in front. He nodded like a mandarin. 

We fixed gelatine on the back of his hands, and 
burnt-corked them inside, and put small cutlet- 
frills round his wrists, and tied both wrists to- 
gether with string. We waxed up the ends of his 
moustache with isinglass. He looked very martial. 

We turned him over, pinned up his coat-tails 
between his shoulders, and put a rosette of cutlet- 
frills there. We took up the red cloth from the 
ball-room to the supper-room, and wound him up 
in it. There were sixty feet of red cloth, six feet 
broad ; and he rolled up into a big fat bundle, with 
only that amazing head sticking out. 

Lastly, we tied up the surplus of the cloth 


346 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

beyond his feet with cocoanut-fibre string as 
tightly as we knew how. We were so angry that 
we hardly laughed at all. 

Just as we finished, we heard the rumble of bul- 
lock-carts taking away some chairs and things that 
the General’s wife had lent for the ball. So we 
hoisted Jevon, like a roll of carpets, into one of the 
carts, and the carts went away. 

Now the most extraordinary part of this tale is 
that never again did I see or hear anything of 
Jevon, T. G. He vanished utterly. He was not 
delivered at the General’s house with the carpets. 
He just went into the black darkness of the end of 
the night, and was swallowed up. Perhaps he died 
and was thrown into the river. 

But, alive or dead, I have often wondered how 
he got rid of the red cloth and the meringue-cream. 
I wonder still whether Mrs. Deemes will ever take 
any notice of me again, and whether I shall live 
down the infamous stories that Jevon set afloat 
about my manners and customs between the first 
and the ninth waltz of the Afghan Ball. They 
stick closer than cream. 

Wherefore, I want Tranter of the Bombay side, 
dead or alive. But dead for preference. 


THE STOEY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 


Who is the happy man? He that sees in his own house 
at home, little children crowned with dust, leaping and 
falling and crying. 

— Muni chandra, translated by Professor Peterson. 

The polo-ball was an old one, scarred, chipped, 
and dinted. It stood on the mantelpiece among 
the pipe-stems which Imam Din, khitmatgar, was 
cleaning for me. 

“Does the Heaven-born want this ball?” said 
Imam Din, deferentially. 

The Heaven-born set no particular store by it ; 
but of what use was a polo-ball to a khitmatgar ? 

“By your Honor’s favor, I have a little son. 
He has seen this ball, and desires it to play with. 
I do not want it for myself.” 

No one would for an instant accuse portly old 
Imam Din of wanting to play with polo-balls. He 
carried out the battered thing into the verandah ; 
and there followed a hurricane of joyful squeaks, 
a patter of small feet, and the thud-thud-thud of 
the ball rolling along the ground. Evidently the 
347 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


348 

little son had been waiting outside the door to se- 
sure his treasure. But how had he managed to 
see that polo-ball ? 

Next day, coming back from office half an hour 
earlier than usual, I was aware of a small figure in 
the dining-room — a tiny, plump figure in a ridic- 
ulously inadequate shirt which came, perhaps, 
half-way down the tubby stomach. It wandered 
round the room, thumb in mouth, crooning to it- 
self as it took stock of the pictures. Undoubtedly 
this was the “little son.” 

He had no business in my room, of course ; but 
was so deeply absorbed in his discoveries that he 
never noticed me in the doorway. I stepped into 
the room and startled him nearly into a fit. He 
sat down on the ground with a gasp. His eyes 
opened, and his mouth followed suit. I knew 
what was coming, and fled, followed by a long, 
dry howl which reached the servants’ quarters far 
more quickly than any command of mine had ever 
done. In ten seconds Imam Din was in the din- 
ing-room. Then despairing sobs arose, and I re- 
turned to find Imam Din admonishing the small 
sinner, who was using most of his shirt as a hand- 
kerchief. 


THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 349 

“This boy,” said Imam Din judicially, “is a 
budmash — a big budmash. He will, without 
doubt, go to the jail-khana for his behavior.” Re- 
newed yells from the penitent, and an elaborate 
apology to myself from Imam Din. 

“Tell the baby,” said I, “that the Sahib is not 
angry, and take him away.” Imam Din conveyed 
my forgiveness to the offender, who had now 
gathered all his shirt round his neck, stringwise, 
and the yell subsided into a sob. The two set off 
for the door. “His name,” said Imam Din, as 
though the name were part of the crime, “is 
Muhammad Din, and he is a budmash.” Freed 
from present danger, Muhammad Din turned 
round in his father’s arms, and said gravely, “It is 
true that my name is Muhammad Din, Tahib, but 
I am not a budmash. I am a man.” 

From that day dated my acquaintance with 
Muhammad Din. Never again did he come into 
my dining-room, but on the neutral ground of the 
garden we greeted each other with much state, 
though our conversation was confined to “Talaam, 
Tahib” from his side, and “Salaam, Muhammad 
Din” from mine. Daily on my return from office, 
the little white shirt and the fat little body used to 


23 


350 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

rise from the shade of the creeper-covered trellis 
where they had been hid ; and daily I checked my 
horse there, that my salutation might not be 
slurred over or given unseemly. 

Muhammad Din never had any companions. 
He used to trot about the compound, in and out of 
the castor-oil bushes, on mysterious errands of his 
own. One day I stumbled upon some of his handi- 
work far down the grounds. He had half buried 
the polo-ball in dust, and stuck six shrivelled old 
marigold flowers in a circle round it. Outside that 
circle was a rude square, traced out in bits of red 
brick alternating with fragments of broken china ; 
the whole bounded by a little bank of dust. The 
water-man from the well-curb put in a plea for the 
small architect, saying that it was only the play of 
a baby and did not much disfigure the garden. 

Heaven knows that I had no intention of touch- 
ing the child’s work then or later ; but, that even- 
ing, a stroll through the garden brought me una- 
wares full on it ; so that I trampled, before I knew, 
marigold-heads, dust-bank, and fragments of 
broken soap-dish into confusion past all hope of 
mending. Next morning I came upon Muham- 
mad Din crying softly to himself over the ruin I 


THE STORY OF MUHAMMAD DIN. 35 1 

had wrought. Some one had cruelly told him that 
the Sahib was very angry with him for spoiling 
the garden, and had scattered his rubbish, using 
bad language the while. Muhammad Din labored 
for an hour at effacing every trace of the dust- 
bank and pottery fragments, and it was with a 
tearful and apologetic face that he said, “Talaam, 
Tahib,” when I came home from office. A hasty 
inquiry resulted in Imam Din informing Muham- 
mad Din that, by my singular favor, he was per- 
mitted to disport himself as he pleased. Whereat 
the child took heart and fell to tracing the ground- 
plan of an edifice which was to eclipse the mari- 
gold-polo-ball creation. 

For some months, the chubby little eccentricity 
revolved in his humble orbit among the castor-oil 
bushes and in the dust ; always fashioning magnifi- 
cent palaces from stale flowers thrown away by 
the bearer, smooth water- worn pebbles, bits of 
broken glass, and feathers pulled, I fancy, from 
my fowls — always alone, and always crooning to 
himself. 

A gaily-spotted sea-shell was dropped one day 
close to the last of his little buildings ; and I looked 
that Muhammad Din should build something more 


352 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


than ordinarily splendid on the strength of it. Nor 
was I disappointed. He meditated for the better 
part of an hour, and his crooning rose to a jubilant 
song. Then he began tracing in the dust. It 
would certainly be a wondrous palace, this one, for 
it was two yards long and a yard broad in ground- 
plan. But the palace was never completed. 

Next day there was no Muhammad Din at the 
head of the carriage-drive, and no “Talaam, 
Tahib” to welcome my return. I had grown ac- 
customed to the greeting, and its omission 
troubled me. Next day Imam Din told me that 
the child was suffering slightly from fever and 
needed quinine. He got the medicine, and an En- 
glish Doctor. 

“They have no stamina, these brats,” said the 
Doctor, as he left Imam Din’s quarters. 

A week later, though I would have given much 
to have avoided it, I met on the road to the Mus- 
sulman burying-ground Imam Din, accompanied 
by one friend, carrying in his arms, wrapped in a 
white cloth, all that was left of little Muhammad 
Din. 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 


When the Devil rides on your chest remember the chamar. 

— Native Proverb. 

Once upon a time, some people in India made a 
new heaven and a new earth out of broken tea- 
cups, a missing brooch or two, and a hair-brush. 
These were hidden under bushes, or stuffed into 
holes in the hill-side, and an entire civil service of 
subordinate gods used to find or mend them again ; 
and every one said : “There are more things in 
heaven and earth than are dreamed of in our 
philosophy.” Several other things happened also, 
but the religion never seemed to get much beyond 
its first manifestations ; though it added an air-line 
postal dak and orchestral effects, in order to keep 
abreast of the times and stall off competition. 

This religion was too elastic for ordinary use. 
It stretched itself and embraced pieces of every- 
thing that medicine-men of all ages have manufac- 
tured. It approved of and stole from Free- 
masonry; looted the Latter-day Rosicrucians of 

half their pet words; took any fragments of 
353 


354 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Egyptian philosophy that it found in the Encyclo- 
paedia Britannica; annexed as many of the Vedas 
as had been translated into French or English, and 
talked of all the rest ; built in the German versions 
of what is left of the Zend Avesta; encouraged 
white, gray and black magic, including Spiritual- 
ism, palmistry, fortune-telling by cards, hot chest- 
nuts, double-kerneled nuts and tallow droppings; 
and would have adopted Voodoo and Oboe had it 
known anything about them, and showed itself in 
every way one of the most accommodating ar- 
rangements that had ever been invented since the 
birth of the sea. 

When it was in thorough working order, with 
all the machinery down to the subscriptions com- 
plete, Dana Da came from nowhere, with nothing 
in his hands, and wrote a chapter in its history 
which has hitherto been unpublished. He said 
that his first name was Dana, and his second was 
Da. Now, setting aside Dana of the New York 
“Sun,” Dana is a Bhil name, and Da fits no native 
of India unless you accept the Bengali De as the 
original spelling. Da is Lap or Finnish ; and Dana 
Da was neither Finn, Chin, Bhil, Bengali, Lap, 
Nair, Gond, Romaney, Magh, Bokhariot, Kurd, 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 355 

Armenian, Levantine, Jew, Persian, Punjabi, 
Madrasi, Parsee, nor anything else known to eth- 
nologists. He was simply Dana Da, and declined 
to give further information. For the sake of brev- 
ity, and as roughly indicating his origin, he was 
called ‘‘The Native.” He might have been the 
original Old Man of the Mountains, who is said to 
be the only authorized head of the Tea-cup Creed. 
Some people said that he was ; but Dana Da used 
to smile and deny any connection with the cult ; ex- 
plaining that he was an “independent experi- 
menter.” 

As I have said, he came from nowhere, with his 
hands behind his back, and studied the creed for 
three weeks ; sitting at the feet of those best com- 
petent to explain its mysteries. Then he laughed 
aloud and went away, but the laugh might have 
been either of devotion or derision. 

When he returned he was without money, but 
his pride was unabated. He declared that he knew 
more about the things in heaven and earth than 
those who taught him, and for this contumacy was 
abandoned altogether. 

His next appearance in public life was at a big 
cantonment in Upper India, and he was then tell- 


356 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


in g fortunes with the help of three leaden dice, a 
very dirty old cloth, and a little tin box of opium 
pills. He told better fortunes when he was al- 
lowed half a bottle of whisky; but the things 
which he invented on the opium were quite worth 
the money. He was in reduced circumstances. 
Among other people’s he told the fortune of an 
Englishman who had once been interested in the 
Simla creed, but who, later on, had married and 
forgotten all his old knowledge in the study of 
babies and Exchange. The Englishman allowed 
Dana Da to tell a fortune for charity’s sake, and 
gave him five rupees, a dinner, and some old 
clothes. When he had eaten, Dana Da professed 
gratitude, and asked if there was anything he 
could do for his host — in the esoteric line. 

“Is there any one that you love?” said Dana 
Da. The Englishman loved his wife, but he had 
no desire to drag her name into the conversation. 
He therefore shook his head. 

“Is there any one that you hate?” said Dana 
Da. The Englishman said that there were sev- 
eral men whom he hated deeply. 

“Very good,” said Dana Da, upon whom the 
whisky and the opium were beginning to tell. 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 357 

“Only give me their names, and I will dispatch a 
Sending to them and kill them.” 

Now a Sending is a horrible arrangement, first 
invented, they say, in Iceland. It is a thing sent 
by a wizard, and may take any form, but most 
generally wanders about the land in the shape of 
a little purple cloud till it finds the sendee, and 
him it kills by changing into the form of a horse, 
or a cat, or a man without a face. It is not strict- 
ly a native patent, though chamars can, if irri- 
tated, dispatch a Sending which sits on the breast 
of their enemy by night and nearly kills him. 
Very few natives care to irritate chamars for this 
reason. 

“Let me dispatch a Sending, 0 said Dana Da, 
“I am nearly dead now with want, and drink, 
and opium ; but I should like to kill a man before 
I die. I can send a Sending anywhere you 
choose, and in any form except in the shape of a 
man.” 

The Englishman had no friends that he 
wished to kill, but partly to soothe Dana Da, 
whose eyes were rolling, and partly to see what 
would be done, he asked whether a modified 
Sending could not be arranged for — such a 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


358 

Sending as should make a man’s life a burden to 
him, and yet do him no harm. If this were pos- 
sible, he notified his willingness to 1 give Dana 
Da ten rupees for the job. 

“I am not what I was once,” said Dana Da, 
“and I must take the money because I am poor. 
To what Englishman shall I send it?” 

“Send a Sending to Lone Sahib,” said the 
Englishman, naming a man who had been most 
bitter in rebuking him for his apostasy from the 
Tea-cup Creed. Dana Da laughed and nodded. 

“I could have chosen no better man myself,” 
said he. “I will see that he finds the Sending 
about his path and about his bed.” 

He lay down on the hearth-rug, turned up the 
whites of his eyes, shivered all over and began 
to snort. This was magic, or opium), or the 
Sending, or all three. When he opened his eyes 
he vowed that the Sending had started upon the 
warpath, and was at that moment flying up to 
the town where Lone Sahib lives. 

“Give me ten rupees,” said Dana Da wearily, 
“and write a letter to Lone Sahib, telling him, 
and all who believe with him, that you and a 
friend are using a power greater than theirs. 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 359 

They will see that you are speaking the truth.” 

He departed unsteadily, with the promise of 
some more rupees if anything came of the Send- 
ing. 

The Englishman sent a letter to Lone Sahib, 
couched in what he remembered of the termin- 
ology of the creed. He wrote: “I also, in the 
days of what you held to be my backsliding, have 
obtained enlightenment, and with enlightenment 
has come power.” Then he grew so deeply 
mysterious that the recipient of the letter would 
make neither head nor tail of it, and was propor- 
tionately impressed ; for he fancied that his 
friend had become a “fifth-rounder.” When a 
man is a “fifth-rounder” he can do more than 
Slade and Houdin combined. 

Lone Sahib read the letter in five different 
fashions, and was beginning a sixth interpreta- 
tion when his bearer dashed in with the news 
that there was a cat on the bed. Now, if there 
was one thing that Lone Sahib hated more than 
another, it was a cat. He rated the bearer for 
not turning it out of the house. The bearer said 
that he was afraid. All the doors of the bed- 
room had been shut throughout the morning, 


360 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

and no real cat could possibly have entered the 
room. He would prefer not to meddle with the 
creature. 

Lone Sahib entered the room gingerly, and 
there, on the pillow of his bed, sprawled and 
whimpered a wee white kitten, not a jumpsome, 
frisky little beast, but a slug-like crawler with 
his eyes barely opened and its paws lacking 
strength of direction — a kitten that ought to 
have been in a basket with its mamma. Lone 
Sahib caught it by the scruff of its neck, handed 
it over to the sweeper to be drowned, and fined 
the bearer four annas. 

That evening, as he was reading in his room, 
he fancied that he saw something moving about 
on the hearth-rug, outside the circle of light 
from his reading-lamp. When the thing began 
to myowl, he realized that it was a kitten — a 
wee white kitten, nearly blind and very miser- 
able. He was seriously angry, and spoke bit- 
terly to his bearer, who said that there was no 
kitten in the room when he brought in the lamp, 
and real kittens of tender age generally had 
mother-cats in attendance. 

“If the Presence will go out into the veranda 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 361 

and listen,” said the bearer, “he will hear no cats. 
How, therefore, can the kitten on the bed and the 
kitten on the hearth-rug be real kittens?” 

Lone Sahib went out to listen, and the bearer 
followed him, but there was no sound of Rachel 
mewing for her children. He returned to his 
room, having hurled the kitten down the hill-side, 
and wrote out the incidents of the day for the 
benefit of his co-religionists. Those people were 
so absolutely free from superstition that they 
ascribed anything a little out of the common to 
agencies. As it was their business to- know all 
about the agencies, they were on terms of almost 
indecent familiarity with manifestations of every 
kind. Their letters dropped from the ceiling — 
unstamped — and spirits used to squatter up and 
down their staircases all night. But they had 
never come into contact with kittens. Lone Sahib 
wrote out the facts, noting the hour and minute, 
as every psychical observer is bound to do, and 
appending the Englishman’s letter because it was 
the most mysterious document and might have 
had a bearing upon anything in this world or the 
next. An outsider would have translated all the 
tangle thus: “Look out! You laughed at me 


362 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

once, and now I am going to make you sit up.” 

Lone Sahib’s coreligionists found that meaning 
in it ; but their translation was refined and full of 
four syllable words. They held a sederunt, and 
were filled with tremulous joy, for, in spite of 
their familiarity with all the other worlds and 
cycles, they had a very human awe of things sent 
from ghost-land. They met in Lone Sahib’s room 
in shrouded and sepulchral gloom, and their con- 
clave was broken up by a clinking among the 
photo-frames on the mantel-piece. A wee white 
kitten, nearly blind, was looping and writhing 
itself between the clock and the candle-sticks. 
That stopped all investigations or doubtings. 
Here was the manifestation in the flesh. It was, 
so far as could be seen, devoid of purpose, but it 
was a manifestation of undoubted authenticity. 

They drafted a round robin to the Englishman, 
the backslider of old days, adjuring him in the 
interests of the creed to explain whether there was 
any connection between the embodiment of some 
Egyptian god or other (I have forgotten the 
name) and his communication. They called the 
kitten Ra, or Toth, or Shem, or Noah, or some- 
thing; and when Lone Sahib confessed that the 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 363 

first one had, at his most misguided instance, been 
drowned by the sweeper, they said consolingly 
that in his next life he would be a “bounder,” and 
not even a “rounder” of the lowest grade. These 
words may not be quite correct, but they express 
the sense of the house accurately. 

When the Englishman received the round robin 
— it came by post — he was startled and bewil- 
dered. He sent into the bazaar for Dana Da, who 
read the letter and laughed. “That is my Send- 
ing,” said he. “I told you I would work well. 
Now give me another ten rupees.” 

“But what in the world is this gibberish about 
Egyptian gods?” asked the Englishman. 

“Cats,” said Dana Da, with a hiccough, for he 
had discovered the Englishman’s whisky bottle. 
“Cats and cats and cats ! Never was such a Send- 
ing. A hundred of cats. Now give me ten more 
rupees and write as I dictate.” 

Dana Da’s letter was a curiosity. It bore the 
Englishman’s signature, and hinted at cats — at 
a Sending of cats. The mere words on paper 
were creepy and uncanny to behold. 

“What have you done, though?” said the 
Englishman ! “I am as much in the dark as ever. 


364 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Do you mean to say that you can actually send this 
absurd Sending you talk about ?” 

“Judge for yourself,” said Dana Da, “What 
does that letter mean? In a little time they will 
all be at my feet and yours, and I, oh, glory ! will 
be drugged or drunk all day long.” 

Dana Da knew his people. 

When a man who hates cats wakes up in the 
morning and finds a little squirming kitten on his 
breast, or puts his hand into his ulster-pocket and 
finds a little half-dead kitten where his gloves 
should be, or opens his trunk and finds a vile kit- 
ten among his dress-shirts, or goes for a long ride 
with his mackintosh strapped on his saddle-bow 
and shakes a little squawling kitten from its folds 
when he opens it, or goes out to dinner and finds 
a little blind kitten under his chair, or stays at 
home and finds a writhing kitten under the quilt, 
or wriggling among his boots, or hanging, head 
downward, in his tobacco- jar, or being mangled 
by his terrier in the veranda- — when such a man 
finds one kitten, neither more nor less, once a 
day in a place where no kitten rightly could or 
should be, he is naturally upset. When he dare 
not murder his daily trove because he believes it 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 365 

to be a manifestation, an emissary, an embodi- 
ment, and half a dozen other things all out of the 
regular course of nature, he is more than upset. 
He is actually distressed. Some of Lone Sahib’s 
coreligionists thought that he was a highly fa- 
vored individual; but many said that if he had 
treated the first kitten with proper respect — as 
suited a Toth-Ra-Tum-Sennacherib Embodiment 
— all this trouble would have been averted. They 
compared him to the Ancient Mariner, but none 
the less they were proud of him and proud of the 
Englishman who had sent the manifestation. 

After sixteen kittens — that is to say, after one 
fortnight, for there were three kittens on the first 
day to impress the fact of the Sending, the whole 
camp was uplifted by a letter — it came flying 
through a window — from the Old Man of the 
Mountains — the head of all the creed — explain- 
ing the manifestation in the most beautiful lan- 
guage and soaking up all the credit of it for him- 
self. The Englishman, said the letter, was not 
there at all. He was a backslider without power 
or asceticism, who couldn’t even raise a table by 
force of volition, much less project an army of 
kittens through space. The entire arrangement, 

24 


366 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

said the letter, was strictly orthodox, worked and 
sanctioned by the highest authorities within the 
pale of the creed. There was great joy at this, 
for some of the weaker brethren seeing that an 
outsider who' had been working on independent 
lines could create kittens, whereas their own 
rulers had never gone beyond crockery — and 
broken at that — were showing a desire to break 
line on their own trail. In fact, there was the 
promise of a schism. A second round robin was 
drafted to the Englishman, beginning: “Oh, 
Scoffer,” and ending with a selection of curses 
from the rites of Mizraim and Memphis and the 
Commination of Jugana, who was a “fifth- 
rounder,” upon whose name an upstart “third- 
rounder” once traded. A papal excommunication 
is a billet-doux compared to the Commination of 
Jugana. The Englishman had been proved under 
the hand and seal of the Old Man of the Moun- 
tains to have appropriated virtue and pretended 
to have power which, in reality, belonged only 
to the supreme head. Naturally, the round robin 
did not spare him. 

He handed the letter to Dana Da to translate 
into decent English, The effect on Dana Da 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 367 

was curious. At first he was furiously angry, and 
then he laughed for five minutes. 

“I had thought,” he said, “that they would 
have come to me. In another week I would have 
shown that I sent the Sending, and they would 
have discrowned the Old Man of the Mountains, 
who has sent this Sending of mine. Do you do 
nothing ? The time has come for me to> act. Write 
as I dictate, and I will put them to shame. But 
give me ten more rupees.” 

At Dana Da’s dictation the Englishman wrote 
nothing less than a formal challenge to the Old 
Man of the Mountains. It wound up: “And if 
this manifestation be from your hand, then let it 
go forward; but if it be from my hand, I will 
that the Sending shall cease in two days’ time. 
On that day there shall be twelve kittens and 
thenceforward none at all. The people shall judge 
between us.” This was signed by Dana Da, who 
added pentacles and pentagrams, and a crux 
ansata, and half a dozen swastikas, and a Triple 
Tau to his name, just to show that he was all he 
laid claim to be. 

The challenge was read out to the gentlemen 
and ladies, and they remembered then that Dana 


3 68 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


Da had laughed at them some years ago. It was 
officially announced that the Old Man of the 
Mountains would treat the matter with contempt ; 
Dana Da being an independent investigator with- 
out a single “round” at the back of him. But this 
did not soothe his people. They wanted to see a 
fight. They were very human for all their spirit- 
uality. Lone Sahib, who was really being worn 
out with kittens, submitted meekly to his fate. 
He felt that he was being “kittened to prove the 
power of Dana Da,” as the poet says. 

When the stated day dawned, the shower of 
kittens began. Some were white and some were 
tabby, and all were about the same loathsome age. 
Three were on his hearth-rug, three in his bath- 
room, and the other six turned up at intervals 
among the visitors who' came to see the prophecy 
break down. Never was a more satisfactory 
Sending. On the next day there were no kittens, 
and the next day and all the other days were kit- 
tenless and quiet. The people murmured and 
looked to the Old Man of the Mountains for an 
explanation. A letter, written on a palm-leaf, 
dropped from the ceiling, but every one except 
Lone Sahib felt that letters were not what the 


THE SENDING OF DANA DA. 369 

occasion demanded. There should have been cats, 
there should have been cats — full-grown ones. 
The letter proved conclusively that there had been 
a hitch in the psychic current which, colliding with 
a dual identity, had interfered with the percipient 
activity all along the main line. The kittens were 
still going on, but owing to some failure in the 
developing fluid, they were not materialized. The 
air was thick with letters for a few days after- 
ward. Unseen hands played Gluck and Beethoven 
on finger-bowls and clock-shades ; but all men felt 
that psychic life was a mockery without material- 
ized kittens. Even Lone Sahib shouted with the 
majority on this head. Dana Da’s letters were 
very insulting, and if he had then offered to lead 
a new departure, there is no knowing what might 
not have happened. 

But Dana Da was dying of whisky and opium 
in the Englishman’s godown, and had small heart 
for new creeds. 

“They have been put to shame,” said he. 
“Never was such a Sending. It has killed me.” 

“Nonsense,” said the Englishman, “you are 
going to die, Dana Da, and that sort of stuff must 
be left behind. I’ll admit that you have made 


370 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


some queer things come about. Tell me honest- 
ly, now, how was it done ?” 

“Give me ten more rupees,” said Dana Da, 
faintly, “and if I die before I spend them, bury 
them with me.” The silver was counted out while 
Dana Da was fighting with death. His hand 
closed upon the money and he smiled a grim 
smile. 

“Bend low,” he whispered. The Englishman 
bent. 

“Bunnia — mission school — expelled — box- wal- 
lah (peddler) — Ceylon pearl-merchant — all mine 
English education — outcasted, and made up name 
Dana Da — England with American thought-read- 
ing man and — and — you gave me ten rupees sev- 
eral times — I gave the Sahib’s bearer two-eight 
a month for cats — little, little cats. I wrote, and 
he put them about — very clever man. Very few 
kittens now in the bazaar. Ask Lone Sahib’s 
sweeper’s wife.” 

So saying, Dana Da gasped and passed away 
into a where, if all be true, there are no material- 
izations and the making of new creeds is discour- 
aged. 

But consider the gorgeous simplicity of it all ! 


THE STRANGE RIDE OF MOR- 
ROWBIE JUKES. 


Alive or dead — there is no other way. — Native Proverb . 

There is, as the conjurers say, no decep- 
tion about this tale. Jukes by accident 
stumbled upon a village that is well known 
to exist, though he is the only Englishman 
who has been there. A somewhat similar 
institution used to flourish on the outskirts 
of Calcutta, and there is a story that if you 
go into the heart of Bikanir, which is in the 
heart of the Great Indian Desert, you shall 
come across not a village but a town where 
the Dead who did not die but may not live 
have established their headquarters. And, 
since it is perfectly true that in the same 
Desert is a wonderful city where all the 


372 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


rich money-lenders retreat after they have 
made their fortunes (fortunes so vast that 
the owners cannot trust even the strong 
hand of the Government to protect them, 
but take refuge in the waterless sands), 
and drive sumptuous C-spring barouches 
and buy beautiful girls and decorate their 
palaces with gold and ivory and Minton 
tiles and mother-o’-pearl, I do not see why 
Jukes's tale should not be true. He is a 
Civil Engineer, with a head for plans and 
distances and things of that kind, and he 
certainly would not take the trouble to 
invent imaginary traps. He could earn 
more by doing his legitimate work. He 
never varies the tale in the telling, and 
grows very hot and indignant when he 
thinks of the disrespectful treatment he 
received. He wrote this quite straightfor- 
wardly at first, but he has since touched it 
up in places and introduced Moral Reflec- 
tions, thus: — 

In the beginning it all arose from a slight 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


373 


attack of fever. My work necessitated my 
being in camp for some months between 
Pakpattan and Mubarakpur — a desolate 
sandy stretch of country as every one who 
has had the misfortune to go there may 
know. My coolies were neither more nor 
less exasperating than other gangs, and my 
work demanded sufficient attention to 
keep me from moping, had I been inclined 
to so unmanly a weakness. 

On the 23d December, 1884, I felt a 
little feverish. There was a full moon at 
the time, and, in consequence, every dog 
near my tent was baying it. The brutes 
assembled in twos and threes and drove 
me frantic. A few days previously I had 
shot one loud-mouthed singer and sus- 
pended his carcass in terrorem about fifty 
yards from my tent-door. But his friends 
fell upon, fought for, and ultimately de- 
voured the body ; and, as it seemed to me, 
sang their hymns of thanksgiving after- 
wards with renewed energy. 

The light-headedness which accompanies 


374 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

fever acts differently on different men. 
My irritation gave way, after a short time, 
to a fixed determination to slaughter one 
huge black and white beast who had been 
foremost in song and first in flight through- 
out the evening. Thanks to a shaking hand 
and a giddy head I had already missed him 
twice with both barrels of my shotgun, 
when it struck me that my best plan would 
be to ride him down in the open and finish 
him off with a hog-spear. This, of course, 
was merely the semi-delirious notion of a 
fever-patient ; but I remember that it struck 
me at the time as being eminently practical 
and feasible. 

I therefore ordered my groom to saddle 
Pornic and bring him round quietly to the 
rear of my tent. When the pony was ready, 
I stood at his head prepared to mount and 
dash out as soon as the dog should again 
lift up his voice. Pornic, by the way, had 
not been out of his pickets for a couple of 
days ; the night air was crisp and chilly ; 
and I was armed with a specially long and 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


375 


sharp pair of persuaders with which I had 
been rousing a sluggish cob that afternoon. 
You will easily believe, then, that when he 
was let go he went quickly. In one mo- 
ment, for the brute bolted as straight as a 
die, the tent was left far behind, and we 
were flying over the smooth sandy soil at 
racing speed. In another we had passed 
the wretched dog, and I had almost forgot- 
ten why it was that I had taken horse and 
hog-spear. 

The delirium of fever and the excitement 
of rapid motion through the air must have 
taken away the remnant of my senses. I 
have a faint recollection of standing upright 
in my stirrups, and of brandishing my hog- 
spear at the great white Moon that looked 
down so calmly on my mad gallop ; and of 
shouting challenges to the camel-thorn 
bushes as they whizzed past. Once or 
twice, I believe, I swayed forward on Por- 
nic’s neck, and literally hung on by my 
spurs — as the marks next morning showed. 

The wretched beast went forward like a 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


376 

thing possessed, over what seemed to be 
a limitless expanse of moonlit sand. Next 
I remember, the ground rose suddenly in 
front of us, and as we topped the ascent I 
saw the waters of the Sutlej shining like a 
silver bar below. Then Pornic blundered 
heavily on his nose, and we rolled together 
down some unseen slope. 

I must have lost consciousness, for when 
I recovered I was lying on my stomach in a 
heap of soft white sand, and the dawn was 
beginning to break dimly over the edge of 
the slope down which I had fallen. As the 
light grew stronger I saw that I was at the 
bottom of a horseshoe-shaped crater of sand, 
opening on one side directly on to the 
shoals of the Sutlej. My fever had alto- 
gether left me, and, with the exception of a 
slight dizziness in the head, I felt no bad 
effects from the fall over night. 

Pornic, who was standing a few yards 
away, was naturally a good deal exhausted 
but had not hurt himself in the least. His 
saddle, a favorite polo one, was much 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 377 

knocked about and had been twisted under 
his belly. It took me some time to put 
him to rights, and in the meantime I had 
ample opportunities of observing the spot 
into which I had so foolishly dropped. 

At the risk of being considered tedious, I 
must describe it at length ; inasmuch as an 
accurate mental picture of its peculiarities 
will be of material assistance in enabling 
the reader to understand what follows. 

Imagine then, as I have said before, a 
horseshoe-shaped crater of sand with 
steeply graded sand walls about thirty-five 
feet high. (The slope, I fancy, must have 
been about 65°). This crater enclosed a 
level piece of ground about fifty yards long 
by thirty at its broadest part, with a rude 
well in the centre. Round the bottom of 
the crater, about three feet from the level 
of the ground proper, ran a series of 
eighty-three semi-circular, ovoid, square, 
and multilateral holes, all about three feet 
at the mouth. Each hole on inspection 
showed that it was carefully shored inter- 


378 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


nally with drift-wood and bamboos, and 
over the mouth a wooden drip-board pro- 
jected, like the peak of a jockey’s cap, for 
two feet. No sign of life was visible in 
these tunnels, but a most sickening stench 
pervaded the entire amphitheatre — a stench 
fouler than any which my wanderings in 
Indian villages have introduced me to. 

Having remounted Pornic, who was as 
anxious as I to get back to camp, I rode 
round the base of the horseshoe to find 
some place whence an exit would be prac- 
ticable. The inhabitants, whoever they 
might be, had not thought fit to put in an 
appearance, so I was left to my own de- 
vices. My first attempt to “ rush ” Pornic 
up the steep sand-banks showed me that I 
had fallen into a trap exactly on the same 
model as that which the ant-lion sets for its 
prey. At each step the shifting sand 
poured down from above in tons, and rat- 
tled on the drip-boards of the holes like 
small shot. A couple of ineffectual charges 
sent us both rolling down to the bottom, 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


379 


half choked with the torrents of sand ; and 
I was constrained to turn my attention to 
the river-bank. 

Here everything seemed easy enough. 
The sand hills ran down to the river edge, 
it is true, but there were plenty of shoals 
and shallows across which I could gallop 
Pornic, and find my way back to terra 
firma by turning sharply to the right or the 
left. As I led Pornic over the sands I was 
startled by the faint pop of a rifle across 
the river ; and at the same moment a bullet 
dropped with a sharp “ whit ” close to Por- 
nic’s head 

There was no mistaking the nature of 
the missile — a regulation Martini-Henry 
“ picket.” About five hundred yards away 
a country-boat was anchored in midstream ; 
and a jet of smoke drifting away from its 
bows in the still morning air showed me 
whence the delicate attention had come. 
Was ever a respectable gentleman in such 
an impasse? The treacherous sand slope 
allowed no escape from a spot which I had 


380 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

visited most involuntarily, and a promenade 
on the river frontage was the signal for a 
bombardment from some insane native in a 
boat. I’m afraid that I lost my temper 
very much indeed. 

Another bullet reminded me that I had 
better save my breath to cool my porridge ; 
and I retreated hastily up the sands and 
back to the horseshoe, where I saw that the 
noise of the rifle had drawn sixty-five human 
beings from the badger-holes which I had 
up till that point supposed to be unten- 
anted. I found myself in the midst of a 
crowd of spectators — about forty men, 
twenty women, and one child who could 
not have been more than five years old. 
They were all scantily clothed in that sal- 
mon-colored cloth which one associates 
with Hindu mendicants, and, at first sight, 
gave me the impression of a band of loath- 
some fakirs. The filth and repulsiveness 
of the assembly were beyond all description, 
and I shuddered to think what their life in 
the badger-holes must be. 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 38 1 

Even in these days, when local self-gov- 
ernment has destroyed the greater part of 
a native's respect for a Sahib, I have been 
accustomed to a certain amount of civility 
from my inferiors, and on approaching the 
crowd naturally expected that there would 
be some recognition of my presence. As a 
matter of fact there was ; but it was by no 
means what I had looked for. 

The ragged crew actually laughed at me 
■ — such laughter I hope I may never hear 
again. They cackled, yelled, whistled, 
and howled as I walked into their midst ; 
some of them literally throwing themselves 
down on the ground in convulsions of un- 
holy mirth. In a moment I had let go 
Pornic's head, and, irritated beyond expres- 
sion at the morning's adventure, commenced 
cuffing those nearest to me with all the 
force I could. The wretches dropped 
under my blows like nine-pins, and the 
laughter gave place to wails for mercy ; 
while those yet untouched clasped me 

round the knees, imploring me in all 

25 


382 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

sorts of uncouth tongues to spare 
them. 

In the tumult, and just when I was feel- 
ing very much ashamed of myself for having 
thus easily given way to my temper, a 
thin, high voice murmured in English 
from behind my shoulder : — “ Sahib t 
Sahib ! Do you not know me ? Sahib, 
it is Gunga Dass, the telegraph-mas- 
ter. M 

I spun round quickly and faced the 
speaker. 

Gunga Dass (I have, of course, no hesi- 
tation in mentioning the man’s real name,) 
I had known four years before as a Dec- 
canee Brahmin lent by the Punjab Govern- 
ment to one of the Khalsia States. He 
was in charge of a branch telegraph-office 
there, and when I had last met him was a 
jovial, full-stomached, portly Government 
servant with a marvellous capacity for mak- 
ing bad puns in English — a peculiarity 
which made me remember him long after I 
had forgotten his services to me in his 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 383 

official capacity. It is seldom that a Hindu 
makes English puns. 

Now, however, the man was changed be- 
yond all recognition. Caste-mark, stomach, 
slate-colored continuations, and unctuous 
speech were all gone. I looked at a with- 
ered skeleton, turbanless and almost naked, 
with long matted hair and deep-set codfish- 
eyes. But for a crescent-shaped scar on 
the left cheek — the result of an accident for 
which I was responsible — I should never 
have known him. But it was indubitably 
Gunga Dass, and — for this I was thankful 
— an English-speaking native who might at 
least tell me the meaning of all that I had 
gone through that day. 

The crowd retreated to some distance as 
I turned towards the miserable figure, and 
ordered him to show me some method of 
escaping from the crater. He held a 
freshly plucked crow in his hand, and in 
reply to my question climbed slowly on a 
platform of sand which ran in front of the 
holes, and commenced lighting a fire there 


384 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

in silence. Dried bents, sand-poppies, and 
drift-wood burn quickly ; and I derived 
much consolation from the fact that he lit 
them with an ordinary sulphur-match. 
When they were in a bright glow, and the 
crow was neatly spitted in front thereof, 
Gunga Dass began without a word of 
preamble : — 

“ There are only two kinds of men, sar. 
The alive and the dead. When you are 
dead you are dead, but when you are alive 
you live.” (Here the crow demanded his 
attention for an instant as it twirled before 
the fire in danger of being burnt to a cin- 
der.) “If you die at home and do not die 
when you come to the gh&t to be burnt you 
come here.” 

The nature of the reeking village was 
made plain now, and all that I had known 
or read of the grotesque and the horrible 
paled before the fact just communicated by 
the ex-Brahmin. Sixteen years ago, when 
I first landed in Bombay, I had been told 
by a wandering Armenian of the existence, 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


385 


somewhere in India, of a place to which 
such Hindus as had the misfortune to 
recover from trance or catalepsy were con- 
veyed and kept, and I recollect laughing 
heartily at what I was then pleased to con- 
sider a travellers tale. Sitting at the 
bottom of the sand-trap, the memory of 
Watson’s Hotel, with its swinging punkahs, 
white-robed attendants, and the sallow- 
faced Armenian, rose up in my mind as 
vividly as a photograph, and I burst into a 
loud fit of laughter. The contrast was too 
absurd ! 

Gunga Dass, as he bent over the unclean 
bird, watched me curiously. Hindus sel- 
dom laugh, and his surroundings were not 
such as to move Gunga Dass to any undue 
excess of hilarity. He removed the crow 
solemnly from the wooden spit and as 
solemnly devoured it. Then he continued 
his story, which I give in his own words : — 

“ In epidemics of the cholera you are 
carried to be burnt almost before you are 
dead. When you come to the riverside the 


386 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

cold air, perhaps, makes you alive, aid 
then, if you are only little alive, mud is put 
on your nose and mouth and you die con- 
clusively. If you are rather more alive, 
more mud is put ; but if you are too lively 
they let you go and take you away. I was 
too lively, and made protestation with 
anger against the indignities that they 
endeavored to press upon me. In those 
days I was Brahmin and proud man. Now 
I am dead man and eat ” — here he eyed the 
well-gnawed breast bone with the first sign 
of emotion that I had seen in him since we 
met — “crows, and other things. They 
took me from my sheets when they saw 
that I was too lively and gave me medi- 
cines for one week, and I survived success- 
fully. Then they sent me by rail from my 
place to Okara Station, with a man to take 
care of me ; and at Okara Station we met 
two other men, and they conducted we 
three on camels, in the night, from Okara 
Station to this place, and they propelled me 
from the top to the bottom, and the other 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 387 

two succeeded, and I have been here ever 
since two and a half years. Once I was 
Brahmin and proud man, and now I eat 
crows.'* 

‘‘There is no way of getting out?” 

“None of what kind at all. When I first 
came I made experiments frequently and 
all the others also, but we have always suc- 
cumbed to the sand which is precipitated 
upon our heads.” 

“ But surely,” I broke in at this point, 
“the river-front is open, and it is worth 
while dodging the bullets ; while at night ” — 

I had already matured a rough plan of 
escape which a natural instinct of selfish- 
ness forbade me sharing with Gunga Dass. 
He, however, divined my unspoken thought 
almost as soon as it was formed ; and, to my 
intense astonishment, gave vent to a long 
low chuckle of derision — the laughter, be 
it understood, of a superior or at least of an 
equal. 

“You will not” — he had dropped the sir 
completely after his opening sentence — 


388 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


" make any escape that way. But you can 
try. I have tried. Once only.” 

The sensation of nameless terror and 
abject fear which I had in vain attempted 
to strive against overmastered me com- 
pletely. My long fast — it was now close 
upon ten o’clock, and I had eaten nothing 
since tiffin on the previous day — combined 
with the violent and unnatural agitation of 
the ride had exhausted me, and I verily 
believe that, for a few minutes, I acted as 
one mad. I hurled myself against the 
pitiless sand-slope. I ran round the base 
of the crater, blaspheming and praying by 
turns. I crawled out among the sedges of 
the river-front, only to be driven back each 
time in an agony of nervous dread by the 
rifle-bullets which cut up the sand round 
me — for I dared not face the death of a mad 
dog among that hideous crowd — and finally 
fell, spent and raving, at the curb of the 
well. No one had taken the slightest 
notice of an exhibition which makes me 
blush hotly even when I think of it now. 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


389 


Two or three men trod on my panting 
body as they drew water, but they were 
evidently used to this sort of thing, and 
had no time to waste upon me. The sit- 
uation was humiliating. Gunga Dass, in- 
deed, when he had banked the embers of 
his fire with sand, was at some pains to 
throw half a cupful of fetid water over my 
head, an attention for which I could have 
fallen on my knees and thanked him, but he 
was laughing all the while in the same 
mirthless, wheezy key that greeted me on 
my first attempt to force the shoals. And 
so, in a semi-comatose condition, I lay till 
noon. Then, being only a man after all, I 
felt hungry, and intimated as much to 
Gunga Dass, whom I had begun to regard 
as my natural protector. Following the 
impulse of the outer world when dealing 
with natives, I put my hand into my pocket 
and drew out four annas. The absurdity 
of the gift struck me at once, and I was 
about to replace the money. 

Gunga Dass, however, was of a different 
20 


390 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

opinion. “ Give me the money,” said he ; 
14 all you have, or I will get help, and we 
will kill you ! ” All this as if it were the 
most natural thing in the world ! 

A Briton’s first impulse, I believe, is to 
guard the contents of his pockets ; but a 
moment’s reflection convinced me of the fu- 
tility of differing with the one man who had 
it in his power to make me comfortable ; 
and with whose help it was possible that I 
might eventually escape from the crater. I 
gave him all the money in my possession, 
Rs. 9-8-5 — nine rupees eight annas and five 
pie — for I always keep small change as 
bakshish when I am in camp. Gunga Dass 
clutched the coins, and hid them at once in 
his ragged loin-cloth, his expression chang- 
ing to something diabolical as he looked 
round to assure himself that no one had 
observed us. 

“Now I will give you something to eat,” 
said he. 

What pleasure the possession of my 
money could have afforded him I am unable 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


391 


to say ; but inasmuch as it did give him evi- 
dent delight I was not sorry that I had 
parted with it so readily, for I had no doubt 
that he would have had me killed if I had 
refused. One does not protest against the 
vagaries of a den of wild beasts; and my 
companions were lower than any beasts. 

While I devoured what Gunga Dass had 
provided, a coarse chapatti and a cupful of 
the foul well-water, the people showed not 
the faintest sign of curiosity — that curiosity 
which is so rampant, as a rule, in an Indian 
village. 

I could even fancy that they despised 
me. At all events they treated me with the 
most chilling indifference, and Gunga Dass 
was nearly as bad. I plied him with ques- 
tions about the terrible village, and re- 
ceived extremely unsatisfactory answers. 
So far as I could gather, it had been in 
existence from time immemorial — whence I 
concluded that it was at least a century old 
— and during that time no one had ever 
been known to escape from it. [I had to 


392 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


control myself here with both hands, lest 
the blind terror should lay hold of me a 
second time and drive me raving round the 
crater.] Gunga Dass took a malicious 
pleasure in emphasizing this point and in 
watching me wince. Nothing that I could 
do would induce him to tell me who the 
mysterious “ They ” were. 

“ It is so ordered,” he would reply, “ and 
I do not yet know any one who has dis- 
obeyed the orders.” 

“ Only wait till my servants find that I am 
missing,” I retorted, “ and I promise you 
that this place shall be cleared off the face 
of the earth, and T ’ give you a lesson in 
civility, too, my friend.” 

u Your servants would be torn in pieces 
before they came near this place ; and, be- 
sides, you are dead, my dear friend. It is 
not your fault, of course, but none the less 
you are dead and buried.” 

At irregular intervals supplies of food, I 
was told, were dropped down from the land 
side into the amphitheatre, and the inhab- 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


393 


itants fought for them like wild beasts. 
When a man felt his death coming on he 
retreated to his lair and died there. The 
body was sometimes dragged out of the hole 
and thrown on to the sand, or allowed to rot 
where it lay. 

The phrase “ thrown on to the sand ” 
caught my attention, and I asked Gunga 
Dass whether this sort of thing was not 
likely to breed a pestilence. 

“ That,” said he, with another of his 
wheezy chuckles, “ you may see for yourself 
subsequently. You will have much time to 
make observations.” 

Whereat, to his great delight, I winced 
once more and hastily continued the con- 
versation ; — “ And how do you live here 
from day to day ? What do you do ? ” 
The question elicited exactly the same an- 
swer as before — coupled with the informa- 
tion that “ this place is like your European 
heaven ; there is neither marrying nor giv- 
ing in marriage.” 

Gunga Dass had been educated at a Mis- 


394 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


sion School, and, as he himself admitted^ 
had he only changed his religion “ like a 
wise man,” might have avoided the living 
grave which was now his portion. But as 
long as I was with him I fancy he was 
happy. 

Here was a Sahib, a representative of the 
dominant race, helpless as a child and com- 
pletely at the mercy of his native neighbors. 
In a deliberate lazy way he set himself to 
torture me as a schoolboy would devote a 
rapturous half-hour to watching the agonies 
of an impaled beetle, or as a ferret in a 
blind burrow might glue himself comfortably 
to the neck of a rabbit. The burden of his 
conversation was that there was no escape 
“of no kind whatever” and that I should 
stay there till I died and was “ thrown on to 
the sand.” If it were possible to forejudge 
the conversation of the Damned on the ad- 
vent of a new soul in their abode, I should 
say that they would speak as Gunga Dass 
did to me throughout that long afternoon. 
I was powerless to protest or answer ; all my 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


395 


energies being devoted to a struggle against 
the inexplicable terror that threatened to 
overwhelm me again and again. I can com- 
pare the feeling to nothing except the strug- 
gles of a man against the overpowering 
nausea of the Channel passage — only my 
agony was of the spirit and infinitely more 
terrible. 

As the day wore on, the inhabitants began 
to appear in full strength to catch the rays 
of the afternoon sun, which were now slop- 
ing in at the mouth of the crater. They 
assembled in little knots, and talked among 
themselves without even throwing a glance 
in my direction. About four o’clock, as far 
as I could judge, Gunga Dass rose and 
dived into his lair for a moment, emerging 
with a live crow in his hands. The wretched 
bird was in a most draggled and deplorable 
condition, but seemed to be in no way 
afraid of its master. Advancing cautiously 
to the river-front, Gunga Dass stepped from 
tussock to tussock until he had reached a 
smooth patch of sand directly in the line of 


39 6 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


the boats fire. The occupants of the boat 
took no notice. Here he stopped, and, 
with a couple of dexterous turns of the 
wrist, pegged the bird on its back with out- 
stretched wings. As was only natural, the 
crow began to shriek at once and beat the 
air with its claws. In a few seconds the 
clamor had attracted the attention of a bevy 
of wild crows on a shoal a few hundred 
yards away, where they were discussing 
something that looked like a corpse. Half 
a dozen crows flew over at once to see what 
was going on, and also, as it proved, to at- 
tack the pinioned bird. Gunga Dass, who 
had lain down on a tussock, motioned to me 
to be quiet, though I fancy this was a need- 
less precaution. In a moment, and before 
I could see how it happened, a wild crow, 
who had grappled with the shrieking and 
helpless bird, was entangled in the latter’s 
claws, swiftly disengaged by Gunga Dass, 
and pegged down beside its companion in 
adversity. Curiosity, it seemed, over- 
powered the rest of the flock, and almost 



Page 396 

A wild crow grappled with the helpless bird 




THE STRANGE RIDE. 


397 


before Gunga Dass and I had time to with- 
draw to the tussock, two more captives 
were struggling in the upturned claws of 
the decoys. So the chase — if I can give it 
so dignified a name — continued until Gunga 
Dass had captured seven crows. Five of 
them he throttled at once, reserving two 
for further operations another day. I was 
a good deal impressed by this, to me, novel 
method of securing food, and complimented 
Gunga Dass on his skill. 

“ It is nothing to do,” said he. “ To- 
morrow you must do it for me. You are 
stronger than 1 am.” 

This calm asumption of superiority upset 
me not a little, and I answered peremptorily : 
— “ Indeed, you old ruffian ! What do you 
think I have given you money for?” 

“Very well,” was the unmoved reply. 

4 Perhaps not to-morrow, nor the day after, 
nor subsequently ; but in the end, and for 
many years, you will catch crows and eat 
crows, and you will thank your European 

God that you have crows to catch and eat.” 

26 


39 » 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


I could have cheerfully strangled him for 
this ; but judged it best under the circum- 
stances to smother my resentment. An 
hour later I was eating one of the crows ; 
and, as Gunga Dass had said, thanking my 
God that I had a crow to eat. N ever as long 
as I live shall I forget that evening meal. 
The whole population were squatting on 
the hard sand platform opposite their dens, 
huddled over tiny fires of refuse and dried 
rushes. Death, having once laid his hand 
upon these men and forborne to strike, 
seemed to stand aloof from them now ; for 
most of our company were old men, bent 
and worn and twisted with years, and 
women aged to all appearance as the Fates 
themselves. They sat together in knots 
and talked — God only knows what they 
found to discuss — in low equable tones, 
curiously in contrast to the strident babble 
with which natives are accustomed to make 
day hideous. Now and then an access of 
that sudden fury which had possessed me 
in the morning would lay hold on a man or 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


399 


woman ; and with yells and imprecations the 
sufferer would attack the steep slope until, 
baffled and bleeding, he fell back on 
the platform incapable of moving a limb. 
The others would never even raise their 
eyes when this happened, as men too well 
aware of the futility of their fellows’ at- 
tempts and wearied with their useless 
repetition. I saw four such outbursts in 
the course of that evening. 

Gunga Dass took an eminently business- 
like view of my situation, and while we 
were dining — I can afford to laugh at the 
recollection now, but it was painful enough 
at the time — propounded the terms on 
which he would consent to “ do ” for me. 
My nine rupees eight annas, he argued, at 
the rate of three annas a day, would pro- 
vide me with food for fifty-one days, or 
about seven weeks ; that is to say, he would 
be willing to cater for me for that length of 
time. At the end of it I was to look after 
myself. For a further consideration — 
videlicet my boots — he would be willing to 


400 KIPLING BOY STORIES, 

allow me to occupy the den next to his 
own, and would supply me with as much 
dried grass for bedding as he could spare. 

“ Very well, Gunga Dass,” I replied ; “ to 
the first terms I cheerfully agree, but, as 
there is nothing on earth to prevent my kill- 
ing you as you sit here and taking every- 
thing that you have ” (I thought of the two 
invaluable crows at the time), “ I flatly re- 
fuse to give you my boots and shall take 
whichever den I please.” 

The stroke was a bold one, and I was 
glad when I saw that it had succeeded. 
Gunga Dass changed his tone immediately, 
and disavowed all intention of asking for 
my boots. At the time it did not strike me 
as at all strange that I, a Civil Engineer, a 
man of thirteen years’ standing in the Ser- 
vice, and, I trust, an average Englishman, 
should thus calmly threaten murder and 
violence against the man who had, for a 
consideration it is true, taken me under his 
wing. I had left the world, it seemed, for 
centuries. I was as certain then as I am 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


401 


now of my own existence, that in the ac- 
cursed settlement there was no law save 
that of the strongest ; that the living dead 
men had thrown behind them every canon 
of the world which had cast them out ; and 
that I had to depend for my own life on my 
strength and vigilance alone. The crew of 
the ill-fated Mignonette are the only men 
who would understand my frame of mind. 
“ At present,” I argued to myself, “ I am 
strong and a match for six of these 
wretches. It is imperatively necessary that 
I should, for my own sake, keep both health 
and strength until the hour of my release 
comes — if it ever does.” 

Fortified with these resolutions, I ate and 
drank as much as I could, and made Gunga 
Dass understand that I intended to be his 
master, and that the least sign of insubordi- 
nation on his part would be visited with the 
only punishment I had it in my power to 
inflict — sudden and violent death. Shortly 
after this I went to bed. That is to say, 
Gunga Dass gave me a double armful of 


402 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

dried bents which I thrust down the mouth 
of the lair to the right of his, and followed 
myself, feet foremost ; the hole running 
about nine feet into the sand with a slight 
downward inclination, and being neatly 
shored with timbers. From my den, which 
faced the river-front, I was able to watch 
the waters of the Sutlej flowing past under 
the light of a young moon and compose 
myself to sleep as best I might. 

The horrors of that night I shall never 
forget. My den was nearly as narrow as a 
coffin, and the sides had been worn smooth 
and greasy by the contact of innumerable 
naked bodies, added to which it smelled 
abominably. Sleep was altogether out of 
question to one in my excited frame of 
mind. As the night wore on, it seemed 
that the entire amphitheatre was filled with 
legions of unclean devils that, trooping up 
from the shoals below, mocked the unfortu- 
nates in their lairs. 

Personally I am not of an imaginative 
temperament, — very few Engineers are, — 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 403 

but on that occasion I was as completely 
prostrated with nervous terror as any 
woman. After half an hour or so, however, 
I was able once more to calmly review my 
chances of escape. Any exit by the steep 
sand walls was, of course, impracticable. 
I had been thoroughly convinced of this 
some time before. It was possible, just 
possible, that I might, in the uncertain 
moonlight, safely run the gauntlet of the 
rifle shots. The place was so full of terror 
for me that I was prepared to undergo any 
risk in leaving it. Imagine my delight, 
then, when after creeping stealthily to the 
river-front I found that the infernal boat 
was not there. My freedom lay before me 
in the next few steps ! 

By walking out to the first shallow pool 
that lay at the foot of the projecting left 
horn of the horseshoe, I could wade across, 
turn the flank of the crater, and make my 
way inland. Without a moment’s hesitation 
I marched briskly past the tussocks where 
Gunga Dass had snared the crows, and out 


404 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

in the direction of the smooth white sand 
beyond. My first step from the tufts of 
dried grass showed me how utterly futile was 
any hope of escape ; for, as I put my foot 
down, I felt an indescribable drawing, suck- 
ing motion of the sand below. Another 
moment and my leg was swallowed up 
nearly to the knee. In the moonlight the 
whole surface of the sand seemed to be 
shaken with devilish delight at my disap- 
pointment. I struggled clear, sweating with 
terror and exertion, back to the tussocks 
behind me and fell on my face. 

My only means of escape from the semi- 
circle was protected with a quicksand ! 

How long I lay I have not the faintest 
idea ; but I was roused at last by the malev- 
olent chuckle of Gunga Dass in my ear. 
“ I would advise you, Protector of the Poor” 
(the ruffian was speaking English) '‘to 
return to your house. It is unhealthy to lie 
down here. Moreover, when the boat 
returns, you will most certainly be rifled 
at.” He stood over me in the dim light of 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


405 


the dawn, chuckling and laughing to him- 
self. Suppressing my first impulse to catch 
the man by the neck and throw him on to 
the quicksand, I rose sullenly and followed 
him to the platform below the burrows. 

Suddenly, and futilely as I thought while 
I spoke, I asked : — “ Gunga Dass, what is 
the good of the boat if I can’t get out any- 
how ? ” I recollect that even in my deep- 
est trouble I had been speculating vaguely 
on the waste of ammunition in guarding an 
already well protected foreshore. 

Gunga Dass laughed again and made 
answer : — “ They have the boat only in 
daytime. It is for the reason that there is a 
way. I hope we shall have the pleasure of 
your company for much longer time. It is 
a pleasant spot when you have been here 
some years and eaten roast crow long 
enough.*’ 

I staggered, numbed and helpless towards 
the fetid burrow allotted to me, and fell 
asleep. An hour or so later I was awak 
ened by a piercing scream — the shrill, high- 


40 6 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

pitched scream of a horse in pain. Those 
who have once heard that will never forget 
the sound. I found some little difficulty in 
scrambling out of the burrow. When I was 
in the open, I saw Pornic, my poor old 
Pornic, lying dead on the sandy soil. How 
they had killed him I cannot guess. Gunga 
Dass explained that horse was better than 
crow, and “ greatest good of greatest num- 
ber is political maxim. We are now Re- 
public, Mister Jukes, and you are entitled 
to a fair share of the beast. If you like, 
we will pass a vote of thanks. Shall I pro- 
pose ?” 

Yes, we were a Republic indeed ! A Re- 
public of wild beasts penned at the bottom 
of a pit, to eat and fight and sleep till we 
died. I attempted no protest of any kind, 
but sat down and stared at the hideous sight 
in front of me. In less time almost than it 
takes me to write this, Pornic’s body was 
divided, in some unclean way or other ; the 
men and women had dragged the fragments 
on to the platform and were preparing their 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 407 

morning meal. Gunga Dass cooked mine. 
The almost irresistible impulse to fly at the 
sand walls until I was wearied laid hold of 
me afresh, and I had to struggle against it 
with all my might. Gunga Dass was offen- 
sively jocular till I told him that if he ad- 
dressed another remark of any kind whatever 
to me I should strangle him where he sat. 
This silenced him till silence became insup- 
portable, and I bade him say something. 

‘‘You will live here till you die like the 
other Feringhi,” he said, coolly, watching 
me over the fragment of gristle that he was 
gnawing. 

“ What other Sahib, you swine ? Speak 
at once, and don't stop to tell me a lie.” 

“ He is over there,” answered Gunga 
Dass, pointing to a burrow-mouth about 
four doors to the left of my own. “You 
can see for yourself. He died in the bur- 
row as you will die, and I will die, and as all 
these men and women and the one child 
will also die.” 

“ For pity's sake tell me all you know 


408 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

about him. Who was he ? When did he 
come, and when did he die ?” 

This appeal was a weak step on my part. 
Gunga Dass only leered and replied : — “ I 
will not — unless you give me something 
first." 

Then I recollected where I was, and 
struck the man between the eyes, partially 
stunning him. He stepped down from the 
platform at once, and, cringing and fawning 
and weeping and attempting to embrace 
my feet, led me round to the burrow which 
he had indicated. 

44 I know nothing whatever about the 
gentleman. Your God be my witness that 
I do not. He was as anxious to escape as 
you were, and he was shot from the boat, 
though we all did all things to prevent him 
from attempting. He was shot here." 
Gunga Dass laid his hand on his lean 
stomach and bowed to the earth. 

44 Well, and what then ? Go on ! ” 

44 And then — and then, your Honor, we 
carried him into his house and gave him 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


409 

water, and put wet cloths on the wound, 
and he laid down in his house and gave up 
the ghost.” 

“ In how long? In how long?” 

“About half an hour, after he received 
his wound. I call Vishn to witness ; ” yelled 
the wretched man, “ that I did everything 
for him. Everything which was possible, 
that I did!” 

He threw himself down on the ground 
and clasped my ankles. But I had my 
doubts about Gunga Dass’s benevolence, 
and kicked him off as he lay protesting. 

“ I believe you robbed him of everything 
he had. But I can find out in a minute or 
two. How long was the Sahib here ?” 

“ Nearly a year and a half. I think he 
must have gone mad. But hear me swear, 
Protector of the Poor! Won’t your 
Honor hear me swear that I never touched 
an article that belonged to him ? What is 
your Worship going to do?” 

I had taken Gunga Dass by the waist and 
had hauled him onto the platform opposite 


4io 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


the deserted burrow. As I did so I 
thought of my wretched fellow-prisoner’s 
unspeakable misery among all these horrors 
for eighteen months, and the final agony of 
dying like a rat in a hole, with a bullet- 
wound in the stomach. Gunga Dass fan- 
cied I was going to kill him and howled 
pitifully. The rest of the population, in 
the plethora that follows a full flesh meal, 
watched us without stirring. 

“ Go inside, Gunga Dass/’ said I, “ and 
fetch it out.” 

I was feeling sick and faint with horror 
now. Gunga Dass nearly rolled off the 
platform and howled aloud. 

“ But I am Brahmin, Sahib — a high-caste 
Brahmin. By your soul, by your fathers 
soul, do not make me do this thing ! ” 

“Brahmin or no Brahmin, by my soul and 
my fathers soul, in you go ! ” I said, and, 
seizing him by the shoulders, I crammed 
his head into the mouth of the burrow, 
kicked the rest of him in, and, sitting down, 
covered my face with my hands. 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


41 


At the end of a few minutes I heard a 
rustle and a creak ; then Gunga Dass in a 
sobbing, choking whisper speaking to him- 
self ; then a soft thud — and I uncovered my 
eyes. 

The dry sand had turned the corpse en- 
trusted to its keeping into a yellow-brown 
mummy. I told Gunga Dass to stand off 
while I examined it. The body — clad in 
an olive-green hunting-suit much stained 
and worn, with leather pads on the shoulders 
— was that of a man between thirty and 
forty, above middle height, with light, sandy 
hair, long mustache, and a rough unkempt 
beard. The left canine of the upper jaw 
was missing, and a portion of the lobe of 
the right ear was gone. On the second 
finger of the left hand was a ring — a shield- 
shaped bloodstone set in gold, with a mono- 
gram that might have been either “ B.K. ” 
or “ B.L.” On the third finger of the right 
hand was a silver ring in the shape of a 
coiled cobra, much worn and tarnished. 
Gunga Dass deposited a handful of trifles 


412 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


he had picked out of the burrow at my feet, 
and, covering the face of the body with my 
handkerchief, I turned to examine these. I 
give the full list in the hope that it may 
lead to the identification of the unfortunate 
man : — 

1. Bowl of a briarwood pipe, serrated at 
the edge ; much worn and blackened ; bound 
with string at the screw. 

2. Two patent-lever keys; wards of both 
broken. 

3. Tortoise-shell-handled penknife, silver 
or nickel, name-plate, marked with mono- 
gram “ B. K.” 

4. Envelope, post-mark undecipherable, 
bearing a Victorian stamp, addressed to 
44 Miss Mon — ” (rest illegible) — “ ham ” — 
44 nt.” 

5. Imitation crocodile-skin note-book 
with pencil. First forty-five pages blank ; 
four and a half illegible ; fifteen others filled 
with private memoranda relating chiefly to 
three persons — a Mrs. L. Singleton, abbre- 
viated several times to 44 Lot Single,” 44 Mrs. 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


413 


S. May,” and “ Garmison,” referred to in 
places as “Jerry” or “Jack.” 

6. Handle of small-sized hunting-knife. 
Blade snapped short. Buck’s horn, dia- 
mond-cut, with swivel and ring on the butt ; 
fragment of cotton cord attached. 

It must not be supposed that I invento- 
ried all these things on the spot as fully as 
I have here written them down. The note- 
book first attracted my attention; and I 
put it in my pocket with the view to study- 
ing it later on. The rest of the articles I 
conveyed to my burrow for safety’s sake, 
and there, being a methodical man, I inven- 
toried them. I then returned to the corpse 
and ordered Gunga Dass to help me to 
carry it out to the river-front. While we 
were engaged in this, the exploded shell of 
an old brown cartridge dropped out of one 
of the pockets and rolled at my feet. 
Gunga Dass had not seen it ; and I fell to 
thinking that a man does not carry exploded 
cartridge-cases, especially li browns,” which 

will not bear loading twice, about with him 

26a 


414 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

when shooting. In other words, that cart- 
ridge-case had been fired inside the crater. 
Consequently there must be a gun some 
where. I was on the verge of asking 
Gunga Dass, but checked myself, knowing 
that he would lie. We laid the body down 
on the edge of the quicksand by the tus- 
socks. It was my intention to push it out 
and let it be swallowed up — the only possi- 
ble mode of burial that I could think of. I 
ordered Gunga Dass to go away. 

Then I gingerly put the corpse out on 
the quicksand. In doing so, it was lying 
face downward. I tore the frail and rotten 
khaki shooting-coat open, disclosing a hid- 
eous cavity in the back. I have already 
told you that the dry sand had, as it were, 
mummified the body. A moment’s glance 
showed that the gaping hole had been 
caused by a gun-shot wound ; the gun must 
have been fired with the muzzle almost 
touching the back. The shooting-coat, 
being intact, had been drawn over the body 
after death, which must have been instaa 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


415 


taneous. The secret of the poor wretch’s 
death was plain to me in a flash. Some 
one of the crater, presumably Gunga Dass, 
must have shot him with his own gun — the 
gun that fitted the brown cartridges. He 
had never attempted to escape in the face 
of the rifle-fire from the boat. 

I pushed the corpse out hastily, and saw 
it sink from sight literally in a few seconds. 
I shuddered as I watched. In a dazed, 
half-conscious way I turned to peruse 
the note-book. A stained and discolored 
slip of paper had been inserted between 
the binding and the back, and dropped out 
as I opened the pages. This is what it 
contained: — “ Four out from crow-clump : 
three left; nine out ; two right; three back; 
two left; fourteen out; two left; seven out; 
one left; nine back; two right; six back; 
four right; seven back." The paper had 
been burnt and charred at the edges. 
What it meant I could not understand. I 
sat down on the dried bents turning it over 
and over between my fingers, until I was 


41 6 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

aware of Gunga Dass standing imme- 
diately behind me with glowing eyes and 
outstretched hands. 

“ Have you got it?” he panted. “ Will 
you not let me look at it also? I swear 
that I will return it.” 

“ Got what ? Return what ? ” I asked. 

“ That which you have in your hands. It 
will help us both.” He stretched out his 
long, bird-like talons, trembling with eager- 
ness. 

“ I could never find it,” he continued. 
“ He had secreted it about his person. 
Therefore I shot him, but nevertheless I 
was unable to obtain it.” 

Gunga Dass had quite forgotten his little 
fiction about the rifle-bullet. I received the 
information perfectly calmly. Morality is 
blunted by consorting with the Dead who 
are alive. 

“ What on earth are you raving about ? 
What is it you want me to give you ?” 

“ The piece of paper in the note-book. 
It will help us both. Oh, you fool! You 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 4 1 7 

fool ! Can you not see what it will do for 
us. We shall escape ! ” 

His voice rose almost to a scream, and he 
danced with excitement before me. I own 
J was moved at the chance of getting 
away. 

“ Don’t skip ! Explain yourself. Do you 
mean to say that this slip of paper will help 
us ? What does it mean ? ” 

“ Read it aloud ! Read it aloud ! I beg 
and I pray to you to read it aloud. '' 

“ I did so. Gunga Dass listened delight- 
edly, and drew an irregular line in the sand 
with his fingers. 

“ See now ! It was the length of his gun- 
barrels without the stock. I have those 
barrels. Four gun-barrels out from the 
place where I caught crows. Straight out ; 
do you follow me ? Then three left — Ah ! 
how well I remember when that man worked 
it out night after night. Then nine out, 
and so on. Out is always straight before 
you across the quicksand. He told me so 

before I killed him.” 

27 


41 8 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

* But if you knew all this why didn’t you 
get out before ? ” 

“ I did not know it. He told me that he 
was working it out a year and a half ago, 
and how he was working it out night after 
night when the boat had gone away, and he 
could get out near the quicksand safely. 
Then he said that we would get away to- 
gether. But I was afraid that he would 
leave me behind one night when he had 
worked it all out, and so I shot him. Be- 
sides, it is not advisable that the men who 
once get in here should escape. Only I, 
and / am a Brahmin.” 

The prospect of escape had brought 
Gunga Dass’s caste back to him. He stood 
up, walked about and gesticulated violently. 
Eventually I managed to make him talk 
soberly, and he told me how this English- 
man had spent six months night after night 
in exploring, inch by inch, the passage 
across the quicksand ; how he had declared 
it to be simplicity itself up to within about 
twenty yards of the river bank after turning 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 


419 

the flank of the left horn of the horseshoe. 
This much he had evidently not completed 
when Gunga Dass shot him with his own 
gun. 

In my frenzy of delight at the possibilities 
of escape I recollect shaking hands effu- 
sively with Gunga Dass, after we had de- 
cided that we were to make an attempt to 
get away that very night. It was weary 
work waiting throughout the afternoon. 

About ten o'clock, as far as I could judge, 
when the Moon had just risen above the lip 
of the crater, Gunga Dass made a move for 
his burrow to bring out the gun-barrels 
whereby to measure our path. All the 
other wretched inhabitants had retired to 
their lairs long ago. The guardian boat 
drifted downstream some hours before, and 
we were utterly alone by the crow-clump 
Gunga Dass, while carrying the gun-barrels, 
let slip the piece of paper which was to be 
our guide. I stooped down hastily to 
recover it, and, as I did so, I was aware that 
the diabolical Brahmin was aiming a violent 


420 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

blow at the back of my head with the gun- 
barrels. It was too late to turn round. 1 
must have received the blow somewhere on 
the nape of my neck. A hundred thousand 
fiery stars danced before my eyes, and I fell 
forward senseless at the edge of the quick- 
sand. 

When I recovered consciousness, the 
Moon was going down, and I was sensible 
of intolerable pain in the back of my head. 
Gunga Dass had disappeared and my 
mouth was full of blood. I lay down again 
and prayed that I might die without more 
ado. Then the unreasoning fury which I 
have before mentioned laid hold upon me, 
and I staggered inland toward the walls of 
the crater. It seemed that some one was 
calling to me in a whisper — “ Sahib ! Sahib ! 
Sahib ! ” exactly as my bearer used to call 
me in the mornings. I fancied that I was 
delirious until a handful of sand fell at my 
feet. Then I looked up and saw a head 
peering down into the amphitheatre — the 
head of Dunnoo, my dog-boy, who at- 


THE STRANGE RIDE. 42 1 

tended to my collies. As soon as he had 
attracted my attention, he held up his hand 
and showed a rope. I motioned, stagger- 
ing to and fro the while, that he should 
throw it down. It was a couple of leather 
punkah ropes knotted together, with a loop 
at one end. I slipped the loop over my 
head and under my arms ; heard Dunnoo 
urge something forward ; was conscious 
that I was being dragged, face downward, 
up the steep sand slope, and the next in- 
stant found myself choked and half fainting 
on the sand hills overlooking the crater. 
Dunnoo, with his face ashy gray in the 
moonlight, implored me not to stay but to 
get back to my tent at once. 

It seems that he had tracked Pornic’s 
footprints fourteen miles across the sands 
to the crater ; had returned and told my 
servants, who flatly refused to meddle with 
any one, white or black, once fallen into 
the hideous Village of the Dead ; where- 
upon Dunnoo had taken one of my ponies 
and a couple of punkah ropes, returned to 


422 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

the crater, and hauled me out as I have 
described. 

To cut a long story short, Dunnoo is 
now my personal servant on a gold mohur 
a month — a sum which I still think far too 
little for the services he has rendered. 
Nothing on earth will induce me to go 
near that devilish spot again or to reveal 
its whereabouts more clearly than I have 
done. Of Gunga Dass I have never found 
a trace, nor do I wish to do. My sole motive 
in giving this to be published is the hope 
that some one may possibly identify, from 
the details and the inventory which I have 
given above, the corpse of the man in the 
olive-green hunting-suit. 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 


As I came through the Desert thus it was — 

As I came through the Desert. 

The City of Dreadful Night. 

Somewhere in the Other World, where 
there are books and pictures and plays and 
shop-windows to look at, and thousands of 
men who spend their lives in building up 
all four, lives a gentleman who writes real 
stories about the real insides of people ; 
and his name is Mr. Walter Besant. But 
he will insist upon treating his ghosts — 
he has published half a workshopful of 
them — with levity. He makes his ghost- 
seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases, 
flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. 
You may treat anything, from a Vice- 
roy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity ; 

(423) 


424 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

but you must behave reverently tow* 
ards a ghost, and particularly an Indian 
one. 

There are, in this land, ghosts who take 
the form of fat, cold, pobby corpses, and 
hide in trees near the roadside till a travel- 
ler passes. Then they drop upon his neck 
and remain. There are also terrible ghosts of 
women who have died in childbed. These 
wander along the pathways at dusk, or hide 
in the crops near a village, and call seduc- 
tively. But to answer their call is death 
in this world and the next. Their feet are 
turned backwards that all sober men may 
recognize them. There are ghosts of little 
children who have been thrown into wells. 
These haunt well-curbs and the fringes of 
jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch 
women by the wrist and beg to be taken up 
and carried. These and the corpse-ghosts, 
however, are only vernacular articles and do 
not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has 
yet been authentically reported to have 
frightened an Englishman ; but many Eng- 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 425 

lish ghosts have scared the life out of both 
white and black. 

Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. 
There are said to be two at Simla, not 
counting the woman who blows the bellows 
at Syree dak-bungalow on the Old Road ; 
Mussoorie has a house haunted of a very 
lively Thing; a White Lady is supposed 
to do night-watchman round a house in 
Lahore ; Dalhousie says that one of her 
houses “ repeats ” on autumn evenings all 
the incidents of a horrible horse-and-preci- 
pice accident; Murree has a merry ghost 
and, now that she has been swept by cholera, 
will have room for a sorrowful one ; there 
are Officers’ Quarters in Mian Mir whose 
doors open without reason, and whose fur- 
niture is guaranteed to creak, not with the 
heat of June but with the weight of Invisi- 
bles who come to lounge in the chairs ; 
Peshawur possesses houses that none will 
willingly rent ; and there is something — 
not fever — wrong with a big bungalow in 
Allahabad. The older Provinces simply 


426 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


bristle with haunted houses, and march 
phantom armies along their main thorough- 
fares. 

Some of the dak-bungalows on the Grand 
Trunk Road have handy little cemeteries in 
their compound — witnesses to the “ changes 
and chances of this mortal life ” in the days 
when men drove from Calcutta to the North- 
west. These bungalows are objectionable 
places to put up in. They are generally 
very old, always dirty, while the khansamah 
is as ancient as the bungalow. He either 
chatters senilely, or falls into the long 
trances of age. In both moods he is use- 
less. If you get angry with him, he refers 
to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty 
years, and says that when he was in that 
Sahib’s service not a khansamah in the 
Province could touch him. Then he jab- 
bers and mows and trembles and fidgets 
among the dishes, and you repent of your 
irritation. 

In these d&k-bungalows, ghosts are most 
likely to be found, and when found, they 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 427 

should be made a note of. Not long ago 
it was my business to live in dik-bungalows. 
I never inhabited the same house for three 
nights running, and grew to be learned in 
the breed. I lived in Government-built ones 
with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an 
inventory of the furniture posted in every 
room, and an excited snake at the thresh- 
old to give welcome. I lived in “ con- 
verted ” ones — old houses officiating as dak- 
bungalows — where nothing was in its proper 
place and there wasn’t even a fowl for din- 
ner. I lived in second-hand palaces where 
the wind blew through open-work marble 
tracery just as uncomfortably as through a 
broken pane. I lived in dlk-bungalows 
where the last entry in the visitors’ book 
was fifteen months old, and where they 
slashed off the currry-kid’s head with a 
sword. It was my good-luck to meet all 
sorts of men, from sober travelling mission- 
aries and deserters flying from British Reg- 
iments, to drunken loafers who threw 
whiskey bottles at all who passed ; and my 


428 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

still greater good-fortune just to escape a 
maternity case. Seeing that a fair propor- 
tion of the tragedy of our lives out here 
acted itself in dak-bungalows, I wondered 
that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that 
would voluntarily hang about a dak-bunga- 
low would be mad of course ; but so many 
men have died mad in dak-bungalows that 
there must be a fair percentage of lunatic 
ghosts. 

In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts 
rather, for there were two of them. Up 
till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. 
Besant’s method of handling them, as 
shown in “ The Strange Case of Mr. 
Lucraft and other StoriesT I am now in 
the Opposition. 

We will call the bungalow Katmal dak- 
bungalow. But that was the smallest part 
of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide 
has no right to sleep in dak-bungalows. 
He should marry. Katmal dak-bungalow 
was old and rotten and unrepaired. The 
floor was of worn brick, the walls were 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 429 

filthy, and the windows were nearly black 
with grime. It stood on a bypath largely 
used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of 
all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but 
real Sahibs were rare. The khansamah , 
who was nearly bent double with old age, 
said so. 

When I arrived, there was a fitful, unde- 
cided rain on the face of the land, accom- 
panied by a restless wind, and every gust 
made a noise like the rattling of dry bones 
in the stiff toddy-palms outside. The khan- 
samah completely lost his head on my ar- 
rival. He had served a Sahib once. Did 
I know that Sahib ? He gave me the name 
of a well-known man who has been buried 
for more than a quarter of a century, and 
showed me an ancient daguerreotype of 
that man in his prehistoric youth. I had 
seen a steel engraving of him at the head of 
a double volume of Memoirs a month be- 
fore, and I felt ancient beyond telling. 

The day shut in and the khansamah went 
to get me food. He did not go through 


430 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

the pretence of calling it “ khana ” — man’s 
victuals. He said ■'* ratub” and that means, 
among other things, “ grub ” — dog’s rations. 
There was no insult in his choice of the 
term. He had forgotten the other word, I 
suppose. 

While he was cutting up the dead bodies 
of animals, I settled myself down, after 
exploring the d&k-bungalow. There were 
three rooms, beside my own, which was a 
corner kennel, each giving into the other 
through dingy white doors fastened with 
long iron bars. The bungalow was a very 
solid one, but the partition-walls of the 
rooms were almost jerry-built in their flim- 
siness. Every step or bang of a trunk 
echoed from my room down the other three, 
and every footfall came back tremulously 
from the far walls. For this reason I shut 
the door. There were no lamps — only can- 
dles in long glass shades. An oil wick was 
set in the bath-room. 

For bleak, unadulterated misery that dak- 
bungalow was the worst of the many that I 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 43 1 

had ever set foot in. There was no fire- 
place, and the windows would not open ; so 
a brazier of charcoal would have been use- 
less. The rain and the wind splashed and 
gurgled and moaned round the house, and 
the toddy-palms rattled and roared. Half 
a dozen jackals went through the compound 
singing, and a hyena stood afar off and 
mocked them. A hyena would convince a 
Sadducee of the Resurrection of the Dead 
— the worst sort of Dead. Then came the 
ratub — a curious meal, half native and half 
English in composition — with the old khan - 
samah babbling behind my chair about dead 
and gone English people, and the wind- 
blown candles playing shadow-bo-peep with 
the bed and the mosquito-curtains. It was 
just the sort of dinner and evening to make 
a man think of every single one of his past 
sins, and of all the others that he intended 
to commit if he lived. 

Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was 
not easy. The lamp in the bath-room threw 
the most absurd shadows into the room, 


432 


KIPLING BOY STORIES. 


and the wind was beginning to talk non- 
sense. 

Just when the reasons were drowsy with 
blood-sucking I heard the regular — “ Let- 
us-take-and-heave-him-over” grunt of doolie- 
bearers in the compound. First one doolie 
came in, then a second, and then a third. I 
heard the doolies dumped on the ground, 
and the shutter in front of my door shook. 
“ That’s some one trying to come in,” I said. 
But no one spoke, and I persuaded myself 
that it was the gusty wind. The shutter 
of the room next to mine was attacked, 
flung back, and the inner door opened. 
“ That’s some Sub-Deputy Assistant,” I 
said, “ and he has brought his friends with 
him. Now they’ll talk and spit and smoke 
for an hour.” 

But there were no voices and no foot- 
steps. No one was putting his luggage 
into the next room. The door shut, and I 
thanked Providence that I was to be left in 
peace. But I was curious to know where 
the doolies had gone. I got out of bed 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 


433 


and looked into the darkness. There was 
never a sign of a doolie. Just as I was 
getting into bed again, I heard in the next 
room, the sound that no man in his senses 
can possibly mistake — the whir of a billiard 
ball down the length of the slates when the 
striker is stringing for break. No other 
sound is like it. A minute afterwards there 
was another whir, and I got into bed. I 
was not frightened — indeed I was not. I 
was very curious to know what had become 
of the doolies. I jumped into bed for that 
reason. 

Next minute I heard the double click of 
a cannon and my hair sat up. It is a mis- 
take to say that hair stands up. The skin 
of the head tightens and you can feel a faint, 
prickly bristling all over the scalp. That is 
the hair sitting up. 

There was a whir and a click, and both 
sounds could only have been made by one 
thing — a billiard ball. I argued the matter 
out at great length with myself ; and the 
more I argued the less probable it seemed 


434 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

that one bed, one table, and two chairs — all 
the furniture of the room next to mine — 
could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a 
game of billiards. After another cannon, a 
three-cushion one to judge by the whir, I 
argued no more. I had found my ghost 
and would have given worlds to have es- 
caped from that d&k-bungalow. I listened, 
and with each listen the game grew clearer. 
There was whir on whir and click on click. 
Sometimes there was a double click and a 
whir and another click. Beyond any sort 
of doubt, people were playing billiards in 
the next room. And the next room was 
not big enough to hold a billiard table ! 

Between the pauses of the wind I heard 
the game go forward — stroke after stroke. 
I tried to believe that I could not hear 
voices ; but that attempt was a failure. 

Do you know what fear is ? Not ordinary 
fear of insult, injury or death, but abject, 
quivering dread of something .that you 
cannot see — fear that dries the inside of the 
mouth and half of the throat — fear that 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 435 

makes you sweat on the palms of the hands, 
and gulp in order to keep the uvula at 
work ? This is a fine Fear — a great coward- 
ice, and must be felt to be appreciated. 
The very improbability of billiards in a 
dak-bungalow proved the reality of the 
thing. No man — drunk or sober — could 
imagine a game at billiards, or invent the 
spitting crack of a “screw-cannon.” 

A severe course of dak-bungalows has 
this disadvantage — it breeds infinite cre- 
dulity. If a man said to a confirmed dak- 
bungalow-haunter : — “ There is a corpse in 
the next room, and there’s a mad girl in the 
next but one, and the woman and man on 
that camel have just eloped from a place 
sixty miles away,” the hearer would not 
disbelieve because he would know that 
nothing is too wild, grotesque, or horrible 
to happen in a dak-bungalow. 

This credulity, unfortunately, extends to 
ghosts. A rational person fresh from his 
own house would have turned on his side 
and slept. I did not. So surely as I was 


436 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

given up as a bad carcass by the scores of 
things in the bed because the bulk of my 
blood was in my heart, so surely did I hear 
every stroke of a long game at billiards 
played in the echoing room behind the 
iron-barred door. My dominant fear was 
that the players might want a marker. It 
was an absurd fear ; because creatures who 
could play in the dark would be above such 
superfluities. I only know that that was 
my terror ; and it was real. 

After a long long while, the game stopped, 
and the door banged. I slept because I was 
dead tired. Otherwise I should have pre- 
ferred to have kept awake. Not for every- 
thing in Asia would I have dropped the 
door-bar and peered into the dark of the 
next room. 

When the morning came, I considered 
that I had done well and wisely, and in- 
quired for the means of departure. 

“ By the way, khansamah ,” I said, “what 
were those three doolies doing in my com 
pound in the night ?*' 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 437 

“ There were no doolies,” said the khan- 
samah . 

I went into the next room and the day- 
light streamed through the open door. I 
was immensely brave. I would, at that 
hour, have played Black Pool with the 
owner of the big Black Pool down below. 

“ Has this place always been a dak-bung- 
alow ? ” I asked. 

“ No/* said the khansamak. “Ten or 
twenty years ago, I have forgotten how 
long, it was a billiard-room.” 

u A how much V 

“A billiard-room for the Sahibs who built 
the Railway. I was knansamah then in the 
big house where all the Railway-Sahibs 
lived, and I used to come across with brandy- 
shrab . These three rooms were all one, 
and they held a big table on which the 
Sahibs played every evening. But the 
Sahibs are all dead now, and the Railway 
runs, you say, nearly to Kabul.” 

“ Do you remember anything about the 

Sahibs?” 

28 


433 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

“ It is long ago, but I remember that one 
Sahib, a fat man and always angry, was 
playing here one night, and he said to me : 
— ‘Mangal Khan, brandy -pant do' and I 
filled the glass, and he bent over the table 
to strike, and his head fell lower and lower 
till it hit the table, and his spectacles came 
off, and when we — the Sahibs and I myself 
— ran to lift him he was dead. I helped to 
carry him out. Aha, he was a strong 
Sahib ! But he is dead and I, old Mangal 
Khan, am still living, by your favor.” 

That was more than enough ! I had my 
ghost — a first-hand, authenticated article. 
I would write to the Society for Psychical 
Research — I would paralyze the Empire 
with the news ! But I would, first of all, 
put eighty miles of assessed crop-land be- 
tween myself and that d&k-bungalow before 
nightfall. The Society might send their 
regular agent to investigate later on. 

I went into my own room and prepared 
to pack after noting down the facts of the 
case. As I smoked I heard the game be- 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 439 

gin again, — with a miss in balk this time, 
for the whir was a short one. 

The door was open and I could see into 
the room. Click — click ! That was a can- 
non. I entered the room without fear, for 
there was sunlight within and a fresh breeze 
without. The unseen game was going on 
at a tremendous rate. And well it might, 
when a restless little rat was running to and 
fro inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a 
piece of loose window-sash was making 
fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook 
in the breeze ! 

Impossible to mistake the sound of bil- 
liard balls ! Impossible to mistake the 
whir of a ball over the slate ! But I was to 
be excused. Even when I shut my enlight- 
ened eyes the sound was marvellously like 
that of a fast game. 

Entered angrily the faithful partner of 
my sorrows, Kadir Baksh. 

“ This bungalow is very bad and low- 
caste ! No wonder the Presence was dis- 
turbed and is speckled. Three sets of 


440 KIPLING BOY STORIES. 

doolie-bearers came to the bungalow late 
last night when I was sleeping outside, and 
said that it was their custom to rest in the 
rooms set apart for the English people ! 
What honor has the khans amah ? They 
tried to enter, but I told them to go. No 
wonder, if these Oorias have been here, 
that the Presence is sorely spotted. 
It is shame, and the work of a dirty 
man ! ” 

Kadir Baksh did not say that he had 
taken from each gang two annas for rent in 
advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had 
beaten them with the big green umbrella 
whose use I could never before divine. 
But Kadir Baksh has no notions of mo- 
rality. 

There was an interview with the khans a- 
mahy but as he promptly lost his head, 
wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a 
long conversation, in the course of which 
he put the fat Engineer-Sahib’s tragic death 
in three separate stations — two of them 
fifty miles away. The third shift was to 


MY OWN TRUE GHOST STORY. 441 

Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while 
driving a dog-cart. 

If I had encouraged him the khans amah 
would have wandered all through Bengal 
with his corpse. 

I did not go away as soon as I intended. 
I stayed for the night, while the wind and 
the rat and the sash and the window-bolt 
played a ding-dong “hundred and fifty up.’ 
Then the wind ran out and the billiards 
stopped, and I felt that I had ruined my 
one genuine, hall-marked ghost story. 

Had I only stopped at the proper time, I 
could have made anything out of it. 

That was the bitterest thought of all ! 


THE END. 














GLOSSARY 










GLOSSARY. 


AFRIDIS, An Afghan clan west and south of Peshawar. 

ALLAH, The Mohammedan name for God. 

ANNANDALE, A valley near Simla — the Simla Race-course, 
etc. 

AVATAR, An incarnation on earth of a divine Being. 

BABU, A title such as “Mr.,” used frequently to signify a Ben- 
gali clerk. 

BABUL, A small thorny mimosa jungle tree, blossoms pro- 
fusely a bright yellow tassel-like flower, like a bullet, and 
with a fragrance resembling that of the wall-flower. 

BANDAR, A monkey. 

BAZUGAR, One who exhibits feats of activity. 

BEGUM, A lady, a queen. 

BENMORE, The old Simla Assembly Rooms. 

BHAMO, A district in Upper Burma. 

BIKANEER, A state in Rajputana. 

BOH, A captain in the Burmese native army. 

BOILEAUGUNGE, A suburb of Simla, named after General 
Boileau. 

BOW BAZAR, One of the principal bazars in Calcutta. 

BRAHMIN, A member of the priestly caste. 

BRINJAREE, The Brinjarees of the Deccan are dealers in 
grain and salt. 

BUKHSHI, A paymaster in the Anglo-Indian army. 

BUL-BUL, The Persian nightingale. 

BUNNIA, A corn and seed merchant or dealer. 

BURSAT, The rains, which set in about the middle of June— 
the first burst of them is known as the “chota bursat,” or 
small rains — after which there is generally a break before 
the regular monsoon sets in. 

BURSATI, A disease to which horses are liable during the 
rains. 

445 


446 


GLOSSARY. 


BYLE, A bullock. 

CHARNOCK, John Charnock, the founder of Calcutta. 

CHOTA BURSAT, see “bursat 

COLLINGA, One of the bazars in Calcutta where most of the 
demi monde resided. 

COOLY, A hired laborer, or burden carrier. 

DAH BLADE, “Dah” is a short Burmese sword. 

DAK, ‘Tost,” i. e., properly, transport by relays of men and 
horses. 

DAK BUNGALOW, A rest house for travelers. 

DARJEELING, A Sanitarium in the Himalaya. The summer 
seat of the Bengal Government. 

DEODARS, the “Cedrus deodarus” of the Himalaya. 

DIBS, A slang term for money — rupees. 

DOM, The name of a very low caste representing some old ab- 
original race spread all over India. In many places they 
perform such offices as carrying dead bodies, removing 
carrion, etc. 

DUFTAR, Book, Journal, Record — sometimes used instead of 
“duftar khana” for “the office.” 

DUSTOORIE, A commission on the money passing in any 
cash transaction. 

DYKES, A firm of coach builders in Calcutta. 

FERASH (faras), a species of date-tree. 

FULTAH, A village in Bengal, situated on the Hughli; also an 
anchorage for vessels. 

GARDEN REACH, The reach or bend forming the entrance 
to the Port of Calcutta — so called on account of the fine 
garden residences which at one time lined the banks of the 
river at this part. 

GHAT, A mountain pass, landing place, or ferry. 

GHI, Boiled or clarified butter. 

HAFIZ, A guardian, governor, preserver. 

HAMILTON, Hamilton & Co., jewelers. 


GLOSSARY. 


447 


HOOKUM, An order, command. 

HOWRAH, A large town opposite Calcutta. 

HUGH LI (or Hooghly), One of the principal rivers of Hindu- 
stan on which Calcutta is situated. 

HURNAI, A pass leading from Baluchistan to Afghanistan. 

JAIN, The non-Brahminical sect so-called — believed now to 
represent the earliest heretics of Buddhism, at present 
chiefly found in the Bombay presidency. The Jains are 
generally merchants, and some have been men of im- 
mense wealth. 

JAKKO, A mountain peak in the Punjab — one of the highest of 
the Himalaya, on which Simla is situated. 

JAT, A tribe among Rajputs. 

JAUN BAZAR, One of the principal bazars in Calcutta. 

JEHANNUM, Hades, hell. 

JEMADAR, The second native officer in a company of Sepoys, 

JEZAIL, A heavy Afghan rifle, fired with a forked rest. 

JINGAL, A small piece of Burmese artillery mounted on a car- 
riage, managed by two men. 

JUNGLE, Forest or other wild growth. 

JUTOGH, A military station in the Punjab, at the entrance of 
Simla. 

KAFIR, An unbeliever in the Moslem faith. 

KAKAHUTTI, A village in the Punjab, on the road to Simla 
from the plains. 

KALKA, A villa in the Punjab, at the foot of the Himalaya, on 
the road from Umballa to Simla. 

KEDGEREE, A village and police station near the mouth of 
the Hughli; also an anchorage for vessels. 

KITMUTGARS, Table servants — a Mohammedan who will also 
perform the duties of a valet. 

KHUD, A precipitous hill side, a deep valley. 

KHYRAGHAUT, A halting station near Simla. 


448 GLOSSARY. 

KHYBEREE (Khaibari), An Afghan tribe inhabiting the Khai- 
bar pass in Afghanistan. 

KOIL, The Indian nightingale. 

KULLAH, A term used generally by Burmese for a western 
foreigner, a stranger. 

KURRUM, a mountain pass into Afghanistan from the Punjab. 

LAKH, One hundred thousand rupees. 

LANGUR, The great white-bearded ape, much patronized by 
Hindus, and identified with the monkey-god, Huniman. 

MAG, Natives of Arakan. 

MAHRATTA, The name of a famous Hindu race. The British 
won India from the two Hindu confederacies, the Mara- 
thas and the Sikhs. 

MALLIE, A gardener. 

MASHOBRA, A village and hill in the Punjab, near Simla. 

MICHINI, A fort in the Punjab. 

MLECH, One without caste. 

MOOLTAN, A district in the Punjab. 

MARRI (Murree), A Hill Station and Sanitarium in the Pun- 
jab. 

MUSTH, In a state of periodical excitement. 

NAT, A term applied to all spiritual beings, angels, elfs, de- 
mons,, or what not, including the gods of the Hindus. 

OCTROI, A municipal tax. 

PADRE, A priest, clergyman, or minister of the Christian re- 
ligion. 

PEG, A term used for a brandy (or other spirit) and soda. 

PELITI, A well-known confectioner. 

PICE, The smallest copper coin - 12 pice=i anna; 1 6 annas=) 
rupee. 

PUKKA, Ripe, mature, cooked; and hence substantial, perma- 
nent, with many specific applications. One of the most 
common uses in which the word has become specific *9 


GLOSSARY. 449 

that of brick and mortar in contradistinction to one of 
inferior material, as of mud, matting, or timber. 

PUNJABI, A native of the Punjab. 

PUNKAH, A large swinging fan suspended from the ceiling 
and pulled by a cooly. 

QUETTA, A town and cantonment in Baluchistan under Brit- 
ish administration. 

RAJAH, A native chief. 

RAMA, One of the Puranic Deities. The hero of the Sanskrit 
epic, the Ramayana. 

RANKEN, Ranken & Co., tailors. 

’RICKSHAW, A contraction of “Jinny rickshaw,” a two- 
wheeled conveyance drawn by a cooly. 

RUPAIYAT of Omar Kal’vin, a play on Rubaiyat of Omar 
Khayyam, signifying (The Poem) connected with rupees 
of Omar Kal’vin (a late financial member of the Viceroy’s 
Council). 

RYOT, A tenant of the soil. 

SAHIB, A lord, master, companion, gentleman, commonly used 
to denote a European. 

SAMADH, A cenotaph. 

SAT-BHAI (lit. the seven brothers), a species of thiush, so 
called from the birds being gregarious, and usually seven 
of them are found together. 

SHRAI, A place for the accommodation of travelers, a khan, a 
caravansary. 

SHAITANPORE, A fictitious name for a place. Shaitan sig- 
nifies the Evil One — pore, a common termination, sig- 
nifies a city. 

SAERISTADAR, The head ministerial officer of a court, whose 
duty it is to receive plaints. 

SHIKAR, Sport, hunting, chase, prey, game, plunder, perquis^ 
ites. 

SHROFF, A money-changer, a banker. 


450 GLOSSARY. 

SIKH, A “disciple,” the distinctive name of the disciples of 
Nanak Shah, who in the 16th century established that 
sect, which eventually rose to warlike predominance in the 
Punjab, and from which sprung Ranjat Singh, the founder 
of the brief kingdom of Lahore. 

“SIMPKIN,” A Hindustani corruption of the word “cham- 
pagne.” 

SIRIS, The tree Acacia, a timber tree of moderate size, best 
known in the Upper Provinces. 

SIVA, A Hindu god, the Destroyer and Reproducer, the third 
person in the Hindu triad. 

SOLON, A cantonment and hill sanitarium in the Punjab, near 
Simla. 

SUBADAR, The chief native officer of a company of Sepoys. 

SUNDERBUNDS, The well-known name of the tract of inter- 
secting creeks and channels, swampy islands and jungles 
which constitute that part of the Ganges Delta nearest the 
sea. 

SUTLEJ, One of the principal rivers of India. 

SUTTEE, The rite of widow-burning. 

TAMARISKS, A graceful, feather-like shrub; is covered with 
numberless little spikes of small pink flowers when in 
blossom. 

TATIA THE BHIL, A well-known dacoit of the Central Prov- 
inces. 

TARA DEVI, One of the Himalaya mountain peaks, near 
Simla. 

THAG, A highway robber, garotter. 

THANA, A police station. 

THAKUR, A chief (among Rajputs). 

THERMANTIDOTE (heat-antidote), A sort of winnowing 
machine fitted to a window aperture, and incased in wet 
tatties, so as to drive a current of cooled air into a house 


GLOSSARY. 


451 


during hot dry weather (tatties are screens or mats made 
of the roots of a fragrant grass) 

TONGA, A two- wheeled car drawn by two ponies curricle fash- 
ion, used for traveling in the hills. 

TONK, A state and city in Rajputana. 

“TRICHI,” A contraction of Trichinopoly, a place on the S.E. 
coast of Hindustan, noted for its cigars, hence “Trichi” 
denotes a Trichinopoly cigar. 

TULWAR, A sabre, used by the Sikhs. 

UMBALLA, A city and cantonment of the Umballa district, 
Punjab. Formerly the nearest station on the railway to 
Simla. 

WAHABIS, A fanatical Mohammedan sect in South Arcot. 

WALER, Horses imported from New South Wales are called 
“Walers.” 

YABU, A class of small, hardy horse which comes from the 
highland country of Kandahar and Cabul. 

YUSUFZAIES, Pathan tribe in Afghanistan. 

ZENANA, The apartments of a house in which the women of 
the family are secluded. 


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